Up is Down and All Around
by Rainey13
Summary: Peter and Neal have been partners for three years, and after all the ups and downs, they're in a good place. But when tragedy strikes, and a lengthy prison sentence separates them, can they keep their friendship intact? (WARNING: Canon character death)
1. Prologue

**_A/N: The bulk of this story was written before the 6 episodes of Season 4.5 aired, so a few things won't match up. In particular, the small, but important, roles for Hughes and Sara in this story are a little at odds with the last couple of episodes. But re-writing them would require so many changes... Just give them a wink and a nod as slightly AU :-)_**

* * *

_Cayuga Correctional Facility, Moravia, NY_

_Day 2,642_

_5:30 a.m._

The buzzer sounded, just like it had for the previous two thousand, six hundred and forty one days. Eighty six months, three weeks, two days. Sixty three thousand, four hundred and eight hours, give or take.

One time he had calculated the minutes, but at nearly four million, that had been rather depressing; even more depressing than his whole situation. He hadn't done it again.

This day, however – this two thousand, six hundred and forty second day – was different.

It was his _last_ day here.

Oh, the day would start the same as they all had for the last seven-plus years. He'd get up with the second buzzer in five minutes and head to the west end of the dormitory where a half wall separated the urinals and toilets from the rest of the room. His bladder comfortably emptied, he'd come back to his little cubicle, gather up his bag with shower and grooming supplies, his slippers, a towel, and his robe, and wait for his turn under one of the industrial shower heads that sprayed one temperature of water – too cool for his liking – no matter how one tried to adjust it. But he'd stay under the water as long as he could, trying to scrub off the prison stench he knew had accumulated again overnight.

The scrubbing never quite worked, but at least today was the last time he'd accumulate the odor; sometimes, he could almost swear it was physical, that he could _see_ it on his skin.

The next shower he took would be as a free man, and right now, that was all that mattered.

He scrubbed extra hard anyway when he got there, and lathered his hair an extra time before rinsing off. Rumblings behind him let him know that other men were waiting, so he finally, reluctantly, reached for his towel and stepped out into the entry area.

A quick stop at a sink finished his morning business. The disposable razor scraped his skin, clearly at the end of its useful life, but it hardly mattered today. He used extra toothpaste, and made a note to himself to brush his teeth again after the institutional breakfast that was waiting. When he stepped out of that gate for the last time, he wanted to truly _taste_ freedom, not the sticky oatmeal and burned toast that were the staples on Tuesday mornings.

Every Tuesday morning for eighty six plus months.

Back in the small cubicle that had been "home" for most of the seven years, he finished towel drying his hair, combed it, and then used his fingers to affect some minimal styling. There were no actual mirrors here; he couldn't blame the last seven years on any bad luck caused by breaking one. And the reflection in the burnished aluminum showed a man he barely recognized anymore.

Or maybe the problem was that he recognized _this_ man all too well, having lived with him in prison for so long. The man he saw reflected now just bore so little resemblance to the man he had been, the man he had wanted to be, less than eight years ago.

When the world as he knew it ended.

He dressed quickly, which was made easier by the limited wardrobe in prison. There was no standing at a closet door, deciding on a suit, a shirt, a tie. Non-descript underwear, prison issue gray pants and shirt, socks that had once been white but had now grayed with the abuse of the prison laundry system.

Finally, he pulled on his shoes – the old, ragged athletic shoes that he would have tossed out months ago in the outside world. He'd had better, newer shoes, but they had been bequeathed to Billy Copeland last night. Billy had been one of the first to befriend him, back in those dark, early days when he had doubted that he could make it seven months, much less seven _years_; hell, even seven _weeks_ had seemed doubtful at first.

He _had_ survived though, both because of the strong support system he had outside of the prison walls, and because of men like Billy inside. Billy, however, had no one outside the walls – no family, no close friends, no one to make sure there was money in a prison account to buy whatever few comforts were allowed.

So, Billy got his almost new shoes. His baseball glove and cleats had gone to Will Armister, who had been a promising college player until a bad decision and a stolen car derailed his playing days. The radio went to Stanley Kresky, an octogenarian who would most likely die without ever breathing free air again, but who could now listen to his beloved big band music.

Actually, as he looked around the small cubicle, there was very little left. Most of the physical items he had accumulated had been given away to men who were not leaving anytime soon. Things that weren't allowed to be transferred directly had been turned over to the correctional officers for distribution or destruction; frankly, he couldn't care less which choice was made.

The photos that had adorned the walls were packed away in the single bag he would be taking with him. Aside from the pictures and letters – the precious items that had kept him going each day – there was nothing else he'd had here that meant anything.

He wanted absolutely nothing that would remind him of Cayuga when he went home.

_Home…_

That was an interesting concept, since he didn't really know what form "home" would take. But he had an approved domicile to go to, and today, that was all that mattered.

Steeling himself for one more round of gluey oatmeal, he got to his feet. After seven years of practice, it didn't take long to make the bunk up to prison standards. He'd strip it down, as instructed, after he ate, but the rule was that beds had to be made up before leaving the dormitory.

Today was definitely _not_ the day to break any rules.

He clipped his prison ID badge to his shirt and headed toward the door.

* * *

The drive had never seemed so long, or so short.

He'd made the trip from Brooklyn to Moravia almost every week for over seven years, so he knew the way by heart. In fact, he figured he probably knew every possible way to get to Moravia by now.

Well, he hadn't actually tried driving up to Canada – which wasn't so very far away – and then back south again, but it would be doable.

But of the main ways to get from Point A to Point B, he'd tried them all, and he had his favorite for scenery, and a favorite for time. It was roughly two hundred and fifty miles however he clocked it.

He was taking the fastest route today. On the road past Middletown, Monticello, Binghamton. Through Cortland, which counted as the nearest "big" town; it was at least the closest location with amenities like hotels. Then on to Cayuga Correctional Facility.

His haste was misplaced, of course, and he knew it. The prison release notice had listed one o'clock as the official time; knowing prison systems as he did, he figured the actual time the gate would open would be at least a couple of hours later. And at his current speed – within posted limits, more or less – he'd be there before noon.

Better early than late on a day like this.

Besides, while Moravia might be lacking in certain big-city amenities, he had discovered a coffee shop there that made up for other shortcomings. He'd have time to sit down with a cup of freshly brewed heaven, and maybe one of the pastries they always tempted him with. And he had also brought an empty thermos along to get filled there.

After more than seven years in Cayuga, his friend would certainly appreciate a good cup of coffee.

After more than seven years of vending machine coffee when they visited, he was going to appreciate being able to share a cup of good coffee with his friend again.

The sign indicated the exit to Moravia was coming up in just over a mile so he touched the brakes, turning off the cruise control. He'd be at the coffee shop in less than five minutes, and in the visitors' lot at the prison within the hour.

And then it was just a matter of waiting.

* * *

Time must have stopped. Or it was at least moving so slowly as to have _seemed _to have stopped.

The oatmeal consumed at breakfast was sitting like a rock in his stomach. His nerves felt like they were stretched so taut, the slightest touch could snap them.

He'd finished cleaning out his things right after breakfast, pitching or giving away a few final items. The bedding was stripped and tossed into the laundry pile. His one bag was packed and ready to go. He kept it firmly between his feet as he sat on the small stool by his table, talking to those who stopped by to wish him well.

He had even managed not to lose his temper with those who paused to taunt him with how soon they expected to see him again. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction, not today. And he certainly wouldn't get provoked into something, not today of _all_ days.

Getting provoked was what had landed him here – for two thousand, six hundred and forty two days - in the first place. The last thing he had packed, as a matter of fact, was the small calendar book where he had marked off each and every one of those days. He wanted – needed – to move on, but he never wanted to forget. To forget was to risk repeating past mistakes.

They'd finally come for him just before noon. By then he'd all but convinced himself that something had gone wrong. They had lost the keys to the front door, or maybe the end of the world had erased everything outside the Cayuga walls. No amount of telling himself that it was just nerves had been able to fully allay those fears.

But they had come, mercifully before he could totally fall apart. There might have been some muttered explanation of more inmates arriving for intake than normal, thus causing the delay, but he wasn't sure he really listened. As long as he was getting out, he didn't really care.

And no, he didn't want to wait until after lunch.

It turned out that getting _out_ of prison was as much of a process as getting in had been, only in a sort of reverse order. In the processing area, his bag was emptied, every item checked. He was patted down, twice – once before being led out of the dormitory, and then again in the processing area. Then he was led into a small room and ordered to strip. Since it was the last time he'd be wearing the dreaded prison gray, this time was at least marginally better than all of the other searches over the last seven plus years.

_He made a mental note to banish gray from his wardrobe from this point forward._

Hands out, open his mouth, turn around, bend over, cough…

_He wondered if he could pin-point when strip searches had ceased to be something he worried about, and simply became a normal part of life._

They handed him a plastic bag marked with the seal indicating it had been x-rayed, sniffed by the drug detection dogs, and hand searched. It contained clothing – wonderful boxers with a pattern, something not allowed in prison. Jeans, and the denim had never felt so fine. A polo shirt, deep crimson in color with thin pinstripes in a lighter shade. Fine dress socks, not the heavy duty kind he'd been wearing. And new shoes.

The prison issued clothing went into the laundry bin provided. The old shoes went into the trash. He put his watch back on, not because the cheap model was full of good memories or anything, but because his wrist felt naked without it.

Then it was on to the social worker interview. Yes, he understood that he was being released on parole, and that the supervision would last for the remaining fifteen percent of his sentence. Yes, he understood that he would need to report to his parole officer within two days of being released, and he knew where the office was. Yes, he understood the restrictions that would be placed on his movements for that period of time, which would amount to fourteen months and a few days. Yes, he understood the requirement of finding and holding a job.

No, he had not signed up for any community reintegration services. He had a network of friends – family – who had been there for seven years, and would continue to be there for him, without a doubt. Yes, his previously approved housing arrangements were still in place. And yes, he had a ride today; the fact that the new clothes had arrived was proof of that.

No, he did not have any other questions.

The final security desk was next. He recited his registration number – 22218115 – for what he sincerely hoped would be the last time. He confirmed his name, handed over his prison identification card.

He stood passively, with a distinct sense of _déjà vu_, as one of the deputies assigned to the prison transfer duty knelt down and attached the electronic monitoring device to his ankle. When everyone involved had confirmed that the tracking light was on and the device was working correctly he was finally waved through to the last door.

He signed the final paperwork, took the envelope with the balance from his prison account. _No, thank you, he didn't need to count it. Just __please__ open the door…_

And then the door opened, the buzzer ringing in his ears as he stepped outside of the main building. A correctional officer walked next to him, and he had the vague sense that the guard was wishing him well, but right then the words had no meaning, and he couldn't process them.

All he could focus on was the car parked just outside the gate, and the man standing next to it.

* * *

Waiting had never been his strongest talent.

The coffee and pastry in Moravia had been good, and the proprietor as friendly as ever. But he hadn't lingered over the experience as he often did after a visit.

He'd actually gotten the thermos filled for free after explaining why he wanted that. Of course, he left a sizeable tip that would more than compensate the owner for her kindness. It was actually thanks for all of the kindness she had shown over the many years he had been coming here.

As he headed back to the car, he knew that, in some way, he would miss the coffee shop, and the small town friendliness.

He would _not_ miss the reason he'd been coming here, and the reason he had found the shop in the first place.

It only took a few minutes to get to the prison entrance. Then it was the same procedure of showing his ID, and getting through to the visitors' parking lot. He took the bag of clothing inside, showing the copy of the release papers to the officer at the front desk.

And then he went back outside to wait.

As expected, one o'clock came and went without any sign of someone coming out. It was an unseasonably warm day for early October, and the two sad looking picnic tables in the yard had no cover. So he stayed in the car with the air conditioning running, trying – and not really succeeding – to study a case file on his e-reader.

Two o'clock passed, and he went for a walk around the parking lot, always keeping his eye on the door.

It was just after three o'clock when the door finally opened, and his friend stepped out into the sunshine.

Neal got out of the car, standing just in front of it, watching as Peter was led to the gate. And then, finally, he was through the gate, free.

He watched as Peter gave a small grin and shake of his head. The older man reached down, pulling up the left leg of his jeans. "Look what I have."

Neal finally moved, stepping away from the car and toward the gate. "It does look somewhat familiar," he said. "Though I think the roles were reversed before."

"Up is down," Peter said softly. "Thanks for coming."

"As if I wouldn't?" Neal closed the distance, wrapping his friend in a strong hug. "This has been a long time coming."

Peter's arms wrapped around him, and he could feel the older man shaking. They just stood there, holding each other, until the tremors passed.

Neal finally took a step back. "Ready to get out of here?"

"Oh, you know I am."

"Yeah, I do know."

Neal reached down and picked up the bag Peter had abandoned in favor of the hug. "Just the one bag?"

"That's all it takes to hold the photos and letters. Nothing else I wanted to keep or remember."

"Yeah, I understand that," Neal said as he led the way to the car. He tossed the bag into the trunk and then headed for the driver's side.

"This really is strange," Peter said quietly. "I remember picking you up like this. Seems like I should be driving."

"Yeah, well, I'd let you drive, but…"

"I think my license expired a while ago."

"And I'm told that breaking the law on your first day out would probably be a bad idea."

"Yeah, probably," Peter agreed as he got in on the passenger side.

"Like you said, up is down," Neal remarked, buckling up behind the wheel.

Peter nodded, buckling his own safety belt. "And all around," he said.

Neal pulled out of the lot and to the first checkpoint. Peter's paperwork was examined, the trunk was checked, and they were waived through. The final guard post led to one more paperwork verification, and then, finally, the heavy gate rolled open, and Neal drove out onto the road.

Peter released the breath he hadn't even realized he was holding.

The car rolled smoothly on the pavement, the walls of the prison spinning by. Razor wire glinted in the afternoon sun, and then they were past it, and open land lay ahead.

Neal silently noted how Peter stared resolutely ahead, not looking into the mirror, as if afraid that what was behind him might be following them.

He remembered the feeling.

He waited until they had put a few miles between them and the prison before reaching down between the seats and pulling out the thermos. "You might be interested in this."

Peter's smile was instantaneous. "Is that what I think it is?"

"Well, if you think it might be coffee from the best little shop in Moravia, you might be right." Neal pointed at two travel mugs in the cup holders. "Why don't you do the honors."

Peter opened the thermos, pausing to inhale deeply as the aroma was released. Then he carefully poured the liquid into the mugs, recapped the thermos and lifted one of the cups to his lips. "Oh, that's good," he said, after a good, long taste.

"What, you doubted my review of the coffee there?"

"Not at all. It's just that there's nothing like first-hand experience."

Neal smiled and nodded, sipping from his own cup. "That is true."

"Sorry for the late start today. I wasn't exactly consulted."

"Having experienced the joys of prison release myself, I wasn't surprised."

"I guess you do understand. Still, I know it's a late start."

"Then I guess it's good that we're only going as far as Ithaca today."

Peter's hesitation was brief, but noticeable. "Ithaca?"

"Yeah, I got it approved, and your dad is expecting us. He said he'd be making your favorite meal, and your old room is waiting." Neal paused, looking over at his passenger. "You know, I think someone might have left something in that room for you."

Peter was silent for a long moment, and when he finally spoke, his voice was so soft Neal almost had to lean over to hear him. "How… how is she?"

"She's fine, Peter. Diana and Shelley are staying with her tonight, and Samantha will pick her up tomorrow after school. She's looking forward to you being home."

"Yeah, me too."

They continued in silence for a couple of miles before Peter spoke again, gesturing to the window. "Hey, would it be all right if I put that down for a bit."

Neal nodded, reaching over to the control panel to turn off the air conditioning. "I think some fresh air would be fine," he said. Then he reached into his pocket and extracted his cell phone, pulling up a number. "Here, why don't you let your dad know we're on the way."

Peter's hand was shaking as he took the phone. He pulled in a deep breath, hit the talk button that Neal pointed out, and then lifted the phone to his ear. It was ringing…

'_Hello.'_

"Hi, dad."

* * *

Lowell Burke hung up the phone, his hand shaking slightly. It seemed like forever and a day since he'd seen his oldest son outside of gray, institutional walls.

But now he was on his way.

He stopped in the bedroom, pulling on a short sleeve cotton shirt over the t-shirt he generally preferred around the house. Then he headed for the kitchen.

At eighty one years of age, bending over to check on the pot roast wasn't the easiest thing to do. As they had both gotten up there in years, Marian had tried to convince him that a crock pot – which could be placed on top of the counter – would do the job just as well. And for some things, maybe it would.

But not for his famous Burke pot roast.

It was the one thing he had truly mastered in the kitchen – the one recipe he had passed along to his children as his special dish. And only the traditional oven roasting would do.

He had heeded Neal's advice and not planned to have dinner ready too early. But a quick check showed that everything looked to be right on target. And the boys were finally on the way.

* * *

They pulled onto the street where he had grown up, and Peter could feel a lump growing in his throat. He'd always meant to come back here more often – after all, it was only about four hours from the city. But he and El had always been so busy…

And then he _couldn't_ come for the seven years of his incarceration.

Neal was slowing down, pulling into a driveway, and they were there. The two story house looked the way it always did in his memories – the way it had looked all of those long nights in prison when all he had were memories to keep him going. The siding was a pale yellow, the paint maybe starting to crack in a few places. The shutters were an earthy brown, weathered without looking old.

The car stopped, and Peter just sat still for a long moment, staring at the house. Finally, he released the seatbelt, opened the door, and slowly got out. He stood there, taking a few deep breaths, and then he felt Neal come up beside him.

Peter nodded, more to himself than anything, and stepped forward. The paving stones leading to the front door looked the same; in fact, he remembered when the crack in the third one from the edge of the driveway had been made.

_How were he and Lyle supposed to know that moving a piano in would turn out to be so difficult?_

There were four steps leading up to a small landing outside the door. A cast iron railing guarded each side and he gripped one rail tightly to keep his hand from shaking as he mounted the steps.

He reached up his hand to knock, but the door opened first, expelling the tantalizing aroma of pot roast in the oven. And then his father was there, filling the doorway, his arms open.

"Hi, dad."

"Hello, son," the older man said, as they hugged on the top step. "Welcome home."


	2. Before the Fall

_8 years earlier… before the fall_

_Early March_

Peter dodged a harried looking woman pushing a rather large baby stroller quickly along the sidewalk. His maneuver sent him bumping into Neal who, in turn, had to do a nimble sidestep in order to avoid colliding with a group of school children being shepherded along by two equally harried looking chaperones.

There was a series of apologies – except from the woman with the baby stroller, who hadn't even looked back – and then the two men continued on their way.

"Ah, the joys of living, and walking, in New York," Neal commented. But it was far too nice a day to let trivial matters ruin things, so his tone was light.

"Mowed down by the daycare squad," was Peter's rather dry reply. "I can see the headlines now."

"More like a grade school field trip squad, I'd say."

"Oh, and is that an improvement?"

Neal flashed one of his trademark grins, the kind that said he wasn't entirely serious about anything he was about to say. "Well, if my end is going to come in such an ignominious fashion, I'd prefer it to not be from toddlers. The brilliant and great Neal Caffrey deserves better."

Peter laughed as he turned and stopped for the light to change at the intersection. Their destination – a Thai restaurant, with what Neal considered to be some of the best curry in town – was just ahead. "Leave it to you to worry about what form his demise takes."

"It's a serious matter, Peter," Neal insisted, though his tone still didn't quite bear that out. "When someone writes my life story…"

"Your life story?"

"Yes. The story of the most brilliant FBI consultant…"

"The story of a con man, forger, thief, escape artist..."

"Allegedly," Neal cut in, before the list of descriptive words for his – former – career could get too long. "All of which _alleged_ skills have made me the most brilliant FBI consultant."

Peter's standard eye roll, accompanied by a grunt of disbelief, would have made Neal smile under normal circumstances – he loved getting the agent to that point. But now he kept his features carefully schooled in a neutral expression. "You wound me, Peter."

"You know what they say. Sometimes the truth hurts."

"Ah, a good reason to avoid the truth then."

"Something you have _years_ of experience with."

"Allegedly, Peter. Allegedly."

"Right."

"Anyway, when someone writes the story of my life, the ending will be very important. It will seal my legacy."

"Right now, I'd settle for something that would seal your lips," Peter muttered.

They'd reached the restaurant, and any reply Neal might have made was cut off when Peter walked inside. Neal stayed on the sidewalk for a moment longer, holding the door politely for a couple of departing patrons. By the time he got inside, Peter was already being shown to a table.

They were in a good place again, he and Peter. All of the ups and downs they had been through made the last couple of years seem like a roller coaster – a particularly violent, twisty one. But the last big twist, involving high-level corruption in the Bureau, the Irish mob, and Sam Phelps – who turned out to be James Bennett – was, at last, behind them. The quislings within the various government agencies had been ferreted out, Ellen Parker's killers had been brought to justice, and Sam – James – was no longer a factor in Neal's life. He had found all the family he needed.

Despite the blows they had both taken – emotional _and _physical – he and Peter had made it through with their friendship back on firm ground. With their conviction rate as a team now edging up toward ninety _five_ percent, their working relationship was definitely on track. The combination of personal and professional satisfaction had him at a point in his life that he hadn't often experienced before, at least not for any length of time.

He was happy. Content. Looking toward the future with eager anticipation, not with dread or worry. And not looking over his shoulder to see what was coming up from behind.

Peter was already seated by the time he got to the table, the menu open in front of him. Neal sat down across from the agent and picked up his own menu. "So, what looks good?"

"It all looks good," Peter replied, not taking his eyes off of the menu. "I hadn't realized how hungry I was until we walked in here and I smelled the food."

"They do say appearance and aroma are as important as taste when it comes to a truly fine dining experience," Neal pointed out.

"Well, right now they could blindfold me and pinch my nose as long as they put some food in front of me."

Neal just grinned as he studied the list. "Appetizers?"

Peter looked up. "Maybe the beef saté? I love the peanut sauce."

"That works. Maybe an order of the gyoza too."

"Good idea."

They debated menu choices for a few more minutes until their server arrived with glasses of ice water and an order pad. Moments later the young man left the table again to submit their order for appetizers, a basil and chili stir fry for Peter, a green chicken curry for Neal, and a couple of Thai iced teas.

When they were alone at the table again, Peter leaned back in his chair, sipping his water. "So, El wanted me to ask you something."

"Should I be nervous?"

"Do you have something to be nervous about?"

"I really hate it when you answer a question with a question, Peter."

"I'm just wondering if you have a guilty conscience about something."

"No, Peter, I have no recent transgressions to confess."

"Recent as in the last few minutes? Or are we talking days…"

Neal grinned and shook his head. "Nothing to confess, period. Now what is Elizabeth's question?"

Peter still looked a little skeptical, though also a bit amused. His eyes remained focused on Neal for another long moment before he finally answered. "She was wondering if you're free for dinner a week from Sunday."

Neal ran through his _busy_ social calendar in his head. _Well, actually, if you didn't count Mozzie's frequent visits, maybe it wasn't really all that busy…_ "I think I'm free. What's the occasion?"

"El pointed out that it'll be the third anniversary of our working together."

That caught Neal off guard for a moment, thinking back. "Wow, I hadn't even thought about that. Since the official end of my sentence got moved back…"

"What, you expected to get credit for your island vacation time?"

"Hey, I stayed out of trouble!"

"You call getting shot staying out of trouble?"

"Collins doesn't count. I was doing fine until he showed up."

"Until I led him to you," Peter said quietly.

"We've been through this, Peter. I'm in New York, where I want to be. And no lasting effects from the bullet. Sara says the scar is kind of sexy though."

"Oh, really. So, are you and Sara…"

"Back together?" Neal shook his head. "Not really. We go out from time to time. We're friends."

"Hmmmm, a friend who's seen a scar on your upper thigh…"

"Maybe she's seen me in running shorts."

"Or maybe you're friends with occasional benefits?"

"That's a rather crass saying, Peter."

"And that's not a denial. Don't forget, I'm well-versed in Caffrey-speak."

Neal just shrugged and offered up his soft, most innocent smile.

Peter shook his head and laughed. "Fine. But, seriously, the leg's not bothering you at all?"

"Sometimes it aches a little when bad weather is coming," Neal admitted. "But from a physical standpoint, no. I was lucky that Collins used a revolver, and the bullet lodged in the muscle. Once I had that scar tissue removed a month or so later, it has really been fine."

"You did outrun Crandall's goons by a sizeable margin last week," Peter conceded.

Neal grinned. "Part of my strategy for avoiding situations where I might get shot."

"Right. So, dinner?"

"Yeah, sounds good. When and where?"

"El's got this restaurant she wants to try. I guess the place is contending for a catering spot she has open. She says the food is right up your alley."

Neal lifted an eyebrow. "Not more pâté samples, I hope."

"I think she mentioned a Russian place in Brighton Beach. It's more likely to be borscht."

"I actually like borscht. And Brighton's a little out of my radius, so it sounds like fun."

"Great, I'll let El know."

The server arrived just then with their iced teas and the first appetizer, with a promise that the second would be out soon. All talk of Russian food and Brighton Beach was abandoned in favor of the meal in front of them.

* * *

_If they didn't open the damn door soon, he might just have to rip it off the hinges…_

Patience had never been Damon Loughler's strong suit. In the past, with his size and temperament, he'd usually remedied the situation with violence. Given his current location and situation, however, he was doing his best to find a different solution.

But, damn it, he'd served his sentence – plus extra, for a couple of altercations that had meant additional time. And now he wanted _out._

He hadn't wasted the whole twelve years, of course. No, his little human smuggling operation turned out to be just a drop in the bucket compared to what he now knew was out there. And he'd met some very helpful people inside.

_And here he'd heard that the Russian mob could be hard to work with…_

It turned out that he'd had a few pretty good practices in play, plus he still had a few key contacts, and the Russians were interested in doing business. In fact, he had a pretty sweet set-up to get busy with.

_If the stupid guards ever opened the door and let him OUT._

Of course, that didn't mean he'd forgiven the Feds for putting him in here. No amount of promised profit could erase the anger and pain he still felt about his arrest. His time in prison had not only cost him twelve years – he'd also lost his wife and son.

_Stupid bitch. He'd always provided well for her and the kid, and then she just cut and ran when the water got a little hot. He figured they were probably hiding out with that damn tight-knit family of hers in Jersey, but no one there would even answer his letters, much less accept a collect call from him._

So yeah, the Feds owed him, big time. And forgiveness was not something he practiced.

No, for Damon Loughler, the name of the game was revenge. He'd take a little time, get his feet back on the ground in the free world, work a couple of deals with the Russians to put some money in his pockets. Then, watch out Feds, starting with the agent who had slapped the steel cuffs on his wrists. Someone he would never forget.

_Peter Burke._

* * *

"Hey, Burke!"

Peter turned at the sound of his name, watching as George Ruiz made his way toward the counter of the crowded coffee shop. "Ruiz."

Neal had finally made it to the front of the line, and he turned around too. "Agent Ruiz. Can I get you something?" he offered.

Ruiz looked a little surprised, but then he shook his head. "No, thanks, Caffrey. I just need a quick word with Pete here."

Peter was sure he wasn't going to like the conversation, but he was also sure he couldn't avoid it. "You got this?" he asked Neal.

Neal nodded. "Yeah. I'll bring your mocha over when it's ready."

Ruiz led the way, threading a path back toward the door. Peter followed as the Organized Crime agent stepped out onto the sidewalk and moved toward one of the tables set up under the shop's awning.

It was a little chilly to be sitting outside, in Peter's opinion, but the cool weather did mean that no one else was out there, so the terrace area was relatively private. He buttoned up his coat again and sat down. "So, was this just a coincidence, running into me here? Or are you stalking me?"

"I stopped up on twenty one. Agent Jones told me where you were."

"Well, you found me. What's this about?"

Ruiz pulled some folded pages out of his coat pocket and slid them across the table. "Recognize anyone here?"

Peter scanned the information on the first page, a few details and names quickly jumping out at him. "This was a case I worked maybe twelve, thirteen years ago. Human smuggling, mostly from the Baltic area as I recall. Young girls, promised fame and fortune in New York."

"Yeah, and then turned into prostitutes to pay back their passage."

"It was a mess." Peter glanced at the other pages and then back to Ruiz. "This is an old case. Is there some new development?"

"Are you familiar with Vasily Lyovkin?"

"Yeah, I saw the memo come through a few weeks ago. Wasn't he tied to some people being smuggled in on a container ship?"

"That's the winner," Ruiz replied. "But he was only tied in through rumor, nothing we could make stick. And no one is talking about the big guys in the chain."

"I never worked a case involving Lyovkin," Peter pointed out. "What does this have to do with me?"

"We're hearing rumblings that some of the people from your old case are getting mixed up with Lyovkin. So, I thought I'd pick your brain, see if you remembered anything that might not have made it into the official report."

Just then Neal walked up to the table, three cups in his hands. "Since you're enjoying the balmy weather out here, I thought you might want something warm after all," he said, setting one of the cups in front of Ruiz. "I got you a cappuccino. And here's your mocha," he added, setting a second cup in front of Peter. Then he hesitated. "Should I leave?"

Peter looked to Ruiz for an answer, and the other agent shrugged. "You can stay, if you want. It's not super top secret agent talk."

Neal grinned and pulled out a chair. "But that's the best type of conversation to eavesdrop on."

"Ruiz thinks some players from an old case of mine might be involved in a new scheme by the Russian mob," Peter explained.

"Know anything about the Russians, Caffrey?" Ruiz asked.

"I know enough to stay far away from them." Neal gestured at the papers and Peter handed them over, watching as Neal skimmed the first page. "Child prostitution?"

Peter nodded, his look as the grim as the one that had come over Neal's face when he glanced at the case information. "Yeah. These guys find vulnerable young girls."

"Usually in areas of a country hard-hit economically," Ruiz added. "They show the kids – this group is doing boys now too – glitzy pictures of New York, promise them the good old American dream. All they have to do is work hard and, see, there's this great job lined up for them. The pretty kids get told they'll be models, the others get promised other kinds of jobs. All paying more than these kids can imagine earning in a lifetime."

"Except when they get here they're sold into prostitution," Neal said. He handed the pages back and looked up. "I've seen some of the investigative reports on television."

"The kids are forced to work long hours, sometimes for years, to pay back the men who brought them here. They get charged for their passage, plus their housing, and every scrap of food they get to eat," Peter said.

Ruiz nodded. "By the time they 'earn' their freedom, they're so used up there isn't always much left. A lot of them have never even learned English, and they have no skills."

Neal looked over at Peter. "And this ties in with one of your cases?"

"I didn't always work white collar, you know."

"Might have made my life simpler if you hadn't switched," Neal muttered.

Peter grinned. "Mine too. But this…" He gestured at the pages. "I wouldn't have lasted long investigating a lot of cases like this."

"Most people don't," Ruiz admitted. "Most of the Russian mob cases we get are the more straight forward type. Guns, smuggling goods, extortion. But a couple of our CIs brought us chatter about this operation with the kids, and they seem scared. You ever hear of Vasily Lyovkin?" he asked Neal.

Neal shook his head. "No. I generally made it a point to stay as far away from the Russian mob as possible. _Any_ mob, actually."

Their recent run-in with the Irish mob notwithstanding, Peter knew that to be mostly true. And really, he couldn't much blame Neal for something that had started before he was born. "You do have some experience with smuggling though," he pointed out.

"True," Neal conceded. "But the only time I smuggled a person was a young girl out of Senegal. The religious elders in her home village in Mali wanted to stone her for being raped by a soldier, but some friends had gotten her as far as Dakar. I got her to some friends of mine in Venice." He paused, a gentle smile on his face. "I still hear from her once in a while. She's a teacher, married, two children."

"Do you think 'Gary Rydell' speaks the smugglers' language?"

"Not this kind of smuggling. Besides, I think the Lawrence case kind of burned the Rydell alias." Neal thought for a moment and then looked at Ruiz. "I might have a couple of aliases that would work as a potential buyer for the… ummmm… _services_, if that would help."

It was Peter who answered, and he was surprised. "Really? For something like this?"

Neal shrugged, obviously a little uncomfortable. "You never discovered all of my aliases, Peter. A couple of them were pretty rough – at least, on paper. And I never considered those aliases as 'friends.' I spent as little time with them as possible. But, with a little tweaking, and some updated rumors, they're names that might work for this. If we're being asked to help, that is."

"I don't think we're quite there yet," Ruiz replied. "Too much rumor, not enough substance to put a buyer operation in place. But I'll keep what you said in mind. It's damn hard to get anyone reliable all the way inside these groups, but the buyer angle could work."

"And I think whatever information I had on the old case was covered in the official file," Peter started.

"If it happens in the field, it goes in the report," Neal muttered.

Peter realized he was being tweaked with the quote, but he chose to ignore the comment and continue. "I can check my personal files, see if I have some notes. Anything particular you want me to look for?"

Ruiz nodded. "Yeah. You remember a guy named Damon Loughler? One of the ringleaders."

"Oh, I remember Damon," Peter replied, his voice dark. "I remember the knife he tried to gut me with. And the threats he made. The guilty verdict was especially sweet on that one."

Neal reached for the papers again. "Is Loughler out?"

"Yeah, five days ago," Ruiz replied. "According to the Bureau of Prisons, he was released from the federal pen in Allenwood. He was put on a bus to New York, and that's the last anyone knows. He never showed for his scheduled check-in with the parole office, and the people at the address he listed on his release papers say they haven't seen him. Seems pretty legit."

"No one checked the address?" Peter asked.

Ruiz sighed and shrugged. "Sure they did. It was registered to his mom, just like he said. He claimed he wanted to come back to New York to care for his ailing mother. Except it turns out, mom has been in a nursing home for over three years, advanced dementia. The cousins in the apartment haven't seen Damon Loughler since some family reunion a quarter century ago."

Peter let that sink in for a moment. "But Loughler's name is coming up again now, in connection with Lyovkin?"

"That's the chatter the last couple of days. But, like I said, we don't really have enough to go on yet. I just wanted to run it by you, see if anything jumped out." Ruiz got to his feet. "You'll check your notes?"

Peter nodded. "Of course. I'll let you know if anything seems helpful."

"Thanks, Pete." Ruiz drained his cup, and gave a quick nod in Neal's direction. "Thanks for the coffee."

Peter watched as Ruiz tossed his cup in a trash container and walked away. Then he turned to Neal. "Think Mozzie might have any information?"

"Moz isn't a big mob fan either."

"He does like Russian surplus though."

"True. I'll ask, see if he has any contacts."

Peter picked up the file papers Ruiz had left, folding them and putting them into his coat pocket. "This is messy business. A big reason I prefer white collar."

Neal grinned. "Sure, because you get to deal with classy criminals like me. Former criminals, I mean."

Peter sighed and shook his head slowly. "Yeah, the kind with the huge egos," he said, getting to his feet. "Come on, let's head back. I want to pull those old files."


	3. Celebrate

The restaurant turned out to be Skovorodka, and their table was waiting when they arrived. And although they did list pâté as one of the appetizer options, the three of them made other choices.

The surprise of the night occurred when Peter and Elizabeth deferred to Neal on the choice of wine. Well, that part wasn't really a surprise, Neal decided; they certainly wouldn't have gone with Peter's palate.

No, the surprise came when the server arrived with the wine – and Elizabeth covered her glass, demurring.

"You don't agree with my choice?" Neal asked. He'd already tasted it before the server poured, and thought it would complement the appetizer selections they were discussing.

"Oh, I'm sure the wine is a great choice." Elizabeth exchanged a cryptic look with her husband, who shrugged and nodded, indicating for her to go ahead. "It's just, well, I won't be drinking for the next several months." She looked at Peter again, smiling. "We're pregnant."

For a moment, Neal just looked between them, studying the other two people at the table. And then he grinned, leaning over to hug Elizabeth. "Congratulations! Wow, that is great." He sat back, studying Peter for a moment. "That's what you were so inordinately pleased with yourself about Friday afternoon."

Peter grinned, reaching for his wife's hand. "Yeah, El texted me after her doctor's appointment. But I wanted to talk to her before telling anyone." He paused, laughing. "You have no idea how hard it was to sit on the news."

Neal leaned toward Elizabeth, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper – but loud enough so Peter would undoubtedly hear his words as well. "Actually, I knew something had to be up. Peter left a crossword puzzle unfinished after lunch."

Elizabeth laughed, while Peter harrumphed in mock annoyance. "You're becoming quite the detective," she told Neal.

"Well, I have good role models," Neal replied. "Diana, Jones…"

Peter's glare was somewhat less effective than normal, given the smile that was still playing at his lips. "Uh huh, and did either of _them_ pull you out of prison three years ago today?"

"No." Neal conceded the point, and then raised his glass in a toast. "To Elizabeth and Peter, and the future Baby Burke. I am so happy for you."

Elizabeth raised her water goblet. "Thank you, Neal."

Peter joined in the toast, raising his glass. "Thanks, Neal," he said, taking a sip. "Just keep in mind that there will be no teaching my child to pick pockets, or run cons, or…"

Elizabeth swatted her husband with her napkin. Neal rolled his eyes, set his glass down, and put his fingers in his ears. And they all laughed before turning their attention back to the menu.

* * *

_He couldn't believe his luck…_

It really had been luck – sheer, dumb, luck that had brought him to Skovorodka that night. Vasily Lyovkin had an underground gambling operation not far from here, and Damon had been there, sharing some vodka and a few hands of poker with his new boss. He really hated not being the one calling the shots, but after being out of circulation for twelve years, it wasn't as if he could have just picked up where he left off anyway.

And really, the Russians weren't so bad. Greedy as hell, and definitely not a group to cross. But they had plans, and connections, and money. As long as his contributions were useful to them, he'd be well compensated.

Somewhat tipsy from the vodka at the poker game, Damon had wandered down the block to the restaurant. Russian food wasn't really his taste, but he figured it looked good to his new bosses to patronize the neighborhood.

Besides, he needed some food, and some time, before he would have been able to travel very far. And Skovorodka offered a nice rib eye steak on their menu.

He was just cutting into the perfectly medium rare meat when he heard the voice – a voice he would never forget.

He had the advantage of a dark booth near the back of the room, and he carefully slid toward the outer edge, looking around.

_And there he was._

Damon knew he'd never forget that profile either.

He didn't know who the other two people at the table were, though the woman seemed to hang on Burke's words more than the younger man's, so maybe a wife? There was a quick hug with the unknown man, but it seemed more congratulatory than romantic. Nothing to worry about right now. But this had to be Fate, delivering one of his prime targets to him like this.

Damon ate his steak slowly, because the others certainly seemed to be in no hurry. And he drank several cups of the good, strong, Russian coffee.

* * *

To accommodate Elizabeth's goal of testing several dishes, they ordered a variety. Neal declared the sesame seared tuna to be excellent, and also gave his stamp of approval to the crepes with red caviar. Elizabeth was impressed with the various blintzes and the Russian dumplings.

Peter preferred the more traditional shrimp cocktail, and wondered idly why Elizabeth's events couldn't just stick with the tried and true.

Neal and Elizabeth looked at each other, rolled their eyes, and dug into the pirogies.

Neal proclaimed himself to have discovered nirvana with the Ukrainian borscht, while Elizabeth liked the green borscht that added spinach. Peter found the Georgian lamb soup better than he had expected.

By the time the entrees arrived, all three of them were so full that they didn't consume much. Elizabeth raved over the Frutti Di Mare with the mixed seafood. Neal staked a claim on the leftover short ribs. They all liked the stroganoff, and Peter discovered a new found love of stuffed cabbage.

The restaurant put together a to-go box of dessert samples, since none of them were able to even contemplate another bite.

Through it all, they talked like the three friends they had become, remembering all that they had been through since that day, three years earlier, that Neal had walked out of prison and into their lives. They touched on the bad – Kate's death, Neal's return to prison, Fowler, the U-boat, Keller. But they concentrated on the good. The successes on cases that others had stumbled with. The times they had spent together.

Sometimes their memories diverged on the same event. When they got to the counterfeiting case involving June's old friend Ford, Elizabeth remembered the dinner June's staff served – every detail of it. From that same night, Peter remembered being called a patsy. Neal's fondest memory was singing with June.

_Well, actually, it was finding the hidden compartment in the table and discovering a real, honest to goodness printing plate for hundred dollar bills… but as a __reformed__ criminal it was probably better not to say that. He didn't want Peter's blood pressure to suffer._

They talked about going to the Art in the Park event coming up at the beginning of May, and about the time Neal's bakery had saved an event for Elizabeth at the last minute by having his crew come in and bake all night.

They laughed about how the two of them had wound up covered in flour at three in the morning.

The perfectly chilled vodka went down easily, and often; the efficient wait staff saw to that.

By the time the three of them left, two heading to Brooklyn and one to Manhattan, they were feeling no pain. The vodka – and the friendly gathering – had seen to that.

With defenses down, they didn't notice the watching eyes.

* * *

Finally, the three people got up to leave, burdened with several bags of leftovers.

_Someone must have a hungry dog…_

Damon Loughler slid further back into the shadows of the booth as the three people walked by, heading for the exit.

He stayed in the shadows until they reached the entry, then got up and dropped enough money to cover his bill and a tip on the table. Being careful to stay in the shadows as much as possible, he got to the front door.

They were outside, standing in a small circle, apparently saying goodnight. And then, arm in arm, Burke and the woman walked toward the parking lot.

_Definitely with Burke. Wife, girlfriend. Something to check out._

The other man was still on the curb, hailing a cab. For the moment, he was of no importance, so Damon slipped outside and around the corner to where he could see the exit from the parking lot. He only had to wait a couple of minutes before a van pulled out. The occupants weren't really visible, given the darkness. But no one else had left the restaurant in the last ten minutes or so, which meant it was likely Burke's vehicle.

He snapped a photo of the license plate, watching which way the car turned as they left. And then he hurried toward where he had left his car. From the direction the other vehicle had gone, there were only a couple of ways the van could be headed. He might be able to catch up.

If not, he had the photo of the license plate number to fall back on. Lyovkin's group had tentacles out into a lot of areas, and certainly someone would be able to get the motor vehicle records.

_Revenge would be sweet, and finding out where Burke lived was a good start._

* * *

"Yeah, I got it. Thanks, Moz."

Neal disconnected the call and got up, grabbing the notes he had just scribbled on a scrap of origami paper. He took the steps to the upper level two at a time and rapped on the door to Peter's office as he walked in.

Peter sighed, not looking up from the report he was working on. "Neal, you're a bright guy. Do you know the reason for knocking on the door?"

"Sure. Gives you a chance to close anything incriminating on your computer screen." Neal grinned as he dropped into the chair across the desk.

Peter shook his head slowly, putting down his pen to rub at his temples. "Actually, it's to give the occupant of the office a chance to say 'not now, come back later.'"

"It's almost like you're not happy to see me, Peter."

"Neal, I'm busy. This budget report has to be in to Hughes by end of business today. Now I'm sure there are still some mortgage fraud cases calling your name from that pile on your desk." Peter looked up, cocking his head to one side and raising one hand to his ear. "Why yes, I can hear them calling to you. Why don't you…"

"I got some information on Lyovkin."

Peter snapped to attention. "Tell me."

Neal slid his notes across the desk. "Mozzie heard back from one of his contacts. There's a rumor of a shipment tied to Lyovkin coming in tonight to one of the abandoned docks in Queens."

"How strong is the rumor?"

"Strong enough that it had Mozzie's contact running scared."

"I need to talk to the contact. Off the record…"

Neal shook his head. "Mmmmm… running scared. As in already running, according to Moz."

Peter sighed, staring at the address on the paper. "Shipment as in… what? Human smuggling? Or something else Lyovkin is tied to?"

"Moz didn't think his contact knew."

"All right, I'm going to call Ruiz, ask if his people have anything on this, and see what he wants to do. I didn't find anything in my old files on Loughler, but this could be a good lead."

"Organized Crimes gets the lead on this?"

"Unless we have something to show a White Collar tie-in, yeah, they do."

Neal nodded, getting to his feet. "At least that means they get the shift in the surveillance van."

* * *

"So, explain to me again how, if this is an Organized Crime case, we're the ones who get stuck in the van."

"Just lucky," Diana muttered as she grabbed the scrap of bubble wrap out of Neal's hands.

"Sorry, I think I already popped all of the bubbles," Neal said, a little too brightly for the van.

Diana's hand snapped up, and she popped an air bubble. "Missed one!"

Peter rolled his eyes, trying not to laugh. "Situation normal in the surveillance van," he mumbled.

"Yeah, Caffrey driving everyone crazy," Diana said, rolling her chair away as Neal tried to reclaim his bubble wrap.

Neal gave up his pursuit, at least for the moment, and returned to his question. "So, about this surveillance assignment?"

"Ruiz already had an operation going somewhere else tonight," Peter explained, as patiently as he could. "And he did send a couple of agents to help watch the area here."

"Too bad they didn't take you with them," Diana teased, sticking out her tongue at Neal. For good measure she waved the bubble wrap in his direction.

"Sometimes I think my business cards should say babysitter, instead of Special Agent," Peter complained.

Neal cleared his throat and pulled his chair up close to the monitors. "No idea what you're talking about." He put his elbow on the narrow shelf and leaned his head on his hand. "How much longer on this shift?"

Peter looked at his watch and sighed. "Three more hours."

"Wouldn't be so bad if they at least had a good coffee shop around," Neal remarked.

Diana nodded. "Isn't Westley due with sustenance soon?"

"Not soon enough," Peter replied with a yawn.

"Moot point," Neal said, sitting up suddenly and pointing at the monitor. "Look."

Three sets of eyes fixed on the screen, watching as a shadowy shape on the river edged closer to the darkened dock.

"Oh, I don't think they're using the proper running lights," Peter said.

"We'll make sure the Coast Guard adds some charges," Diana said, and then she pointed at another screen showing the gated entrance to the dock. "Someone's coming."

A light-colored van was approaching the gate, its lights off. "Now that's got to be a safety violation," Neal pointed out. "No headlights."

"We'll add it to the list of charges," Peter said. "Because I'm _sure_ everything else is totally legit when we have a boat and a van, both with no lights, approaching a closed-up dock after midnight." He picked up his radio and keyed the button. "All teams, get ready to move."

* * *

As the bright lights came on, and shouts of "Freeze, FBI" filled the air, Damon Loughler slipped back into the shadows of his observation spot, a deep doorway in an abandoned building across from the dock and warehouse. He watched the action, alternating between binoculars and the camera fitted with night vision technology, depending on where his attention was directed.

He'd warned Lyovkin about going ahead with this. When he couldn't find Leroy, and it seemed that the nervous little thief had rabbited, he'd told his boss that the man might have talked to someone.

It had been Lyovkin's decision to go ahead; after all, it was only a relatively small shipment of drugs, not the more valuable human cargo that they would soon be bringing in again. And Lyovkin reasoned that if the authorities did, indeed, intercept tonight's delivery, that would give them valuable intel about what their enemies knew, and what resources they were marshaling.

Damon knew he had a good exit route, so he stayed a little longer than he had planned…

And he was rewarded with a _very_ valuable piece of information.

Because who was right there, in the middle of the dock yard, directing the operation? Why, none other than his old _friend_ Peter Burke.

This would definitely be of interest to Lyovkin. If for no other reason than that Damon intended to _make_ it interesting to the Russian.

The sweet taste of revenge was getting a little sweeter…

* * *

It was after three o'clock in the morning when things were finally getting wrapped up at the dock. A few agents would stay to watch the scene the rest of the night, and the Evidence Recovery Team would be back at first light to look for anything they might have missed in the dead of night.

The last of the transport vehicles was leaving with the handcuffed and mirandized suspects from the boat and the van. The Coast Guard had sent a team over to help examine the boat.

Peter was off somewhere, interfacing with a couple of agents from the Drug Enforcement Agency. It turned out that the stealth boat _was_ smuggling – drugs, as in a massive amount of heroin.

Neal had never really understood the whole world of drugs. For him, a "high" was executing a well-planned heist, or putting the finishing touches on a reproduction of a classic masterpiece painting or sculpture. Running a con, having the mark _want_ to give over whatever information or item of value was the target, could also be a rush.

But drugs? They just created an artificial high, and he didn't need any of that. Beyond a few joints of marijuana in high school- nearly a requirement for graduation in his part of St. Louis – he'd never found a reason to experiment further.

So, while the agents read all of the suspects their rights, and called in forensics teams and experts from other agencies, he took a walk. There was a fence around the abandoned dock, but from the looks of it, the fence had been somewhat abandoned too. In places it was severely bowed in or out, and in at least two places along this stretch he found sections where someone had cut the links, creating an entrance into the yard. Maybe kids, looking for a place to party, or get high? Or homeless, seeking shelter when the weather turned rough.

Of course, the openings could have been there for years, for all he knew. Still, he'd mention his find to Peter and let him decide if it was worth looking into. After all, if it happened – or was discovered – in the field, it went into the report.

And since this had turned into a rather major drug bust, at least he wasn't likely to be on the hook for completing that report.

This whole area around the dock and warehouse appeared to be abandoned; built in a time when there was heavier shipping traffic, and less automation for loading and unloading container ships, and now not needed. There were easier areas to access along the waterfront, better places to reach with cargo. Places that were just as easy to protect from prying eyes.

'_Gary Rydell' might have had reason to look into things like that at one point…_

He wandered toward the gate, wishing he'd thought to bring one of the flashlights from the van. Still, there was a quarter moon above, and the lights from the scene down by the water added a bit of a glow even this far up.

For such an old fence, there had been no rusty squeaking when the men from the van opened the gate. Up close, he could smell the lubricant; silicone based, if he wasn't mistaken. And there was definitely a slight sheen to the hinges, as if they had been freshly sprayed.

There was another clue hanging from the hasp on the gate itself. The chain and padlock dangling loose were shining in the moonlight – definitely not what he'd expect from equipment that was as old as the rest of the fence.

Since he definitely _had_ learned a few things from almost three years of work with the FBI, he didn't touch anything. But he made note of his observations, cataloging them in his mind to share when he got back down to the main crime scene.

Just then, a sensation of movement from across the street caught his attention. There was a sound too, like a car starting, but it was hard to place. The huge empty warehouse buildings seemed to create echoes in the night.

Neal stood absolutely still, using his eyes and his other senses to get a feel for his surroundings. He tuned out the noise from down below, looking beyond the fence.

And then he saw it.

A large, black shape edged out from between two of the structures, slowly morphing into the shape of a car. Like the van, it was running with no headlights. And without the night vision gear stowed in the van – or at least one of Mozzie's many spy devices – there was no way he could make out a license plate from this distance.

He stayed completely still, not wanting to draw attention to himself, as the car moved slowly away. There was a brief flash of brake lights as the car reached a corner and turned, and then it was hidden from view.

Neal turned around and made his way back down toward the van and the agents gathered there. This was something they might want to check out.

Because really, what were the odds that whoever was driving that blacked-out car in the middle of the night in this abandoned section of town _wasn't_ associated with the smuggled shipment of drugs?


	4. Clues

"Good catch."

Neal looked up as he reached for the file Peter had just dropped on his desk. "Which exhibition of brilliance am I being congratulated for now?"

"Obviously, for your stunning display of humility."

Neal ignored the sarcasm he was pretty sure he heard in Peter's voice; the way the agent rolled his eyes was another clue. But the information in the file caught his eye. "They found something about that car?"

"Yeah, the forensics team went over the area the next morning. Said there was definitely someone there recently, apparently for quite a while, judging by the number of cigarette butts they found."

"All fresh, I assume?"

"It rained earlier that day, remember?"

"And none of these were wet," Neal guessed.

"Exactly. They were able to pull DNA. Check out page two."

Neal did as instructed, flipping to the next page. "Damon Loughler. He's the one Ruiz was asking about from your old case."

"Yes, he was." Peter slid the bust of Socrates over so he could settle a hip on the edge of the desk. "I didn't have anything useful in my files, and thirteen years ago we weren't collecting DNA on a regular basis. But it turns out Damon wound up with some new charges while he was already in prison, and they got a sample from that."

"So if Loughler really is working for Lyovkin…"

"Then we'd have confirmation that the drugs were part of his operation."

"None of the men from the other night are talking?"

"All lawyered up and staying silent."

"You know, I used to admire that strategy," Neal mused.

"Before you became the reformed and morally upstanding citizen that you are today, right?"

Neal grinned. "Exactly!"

Peter rolled his eyes and stood up. "You're hopeless."

"But loveable. And useful, right?"

That got a laugh from the agent. "Yeah, sometimes."

"Hey, I brought you the lead on the car."

"True. Although, I seem to recall telling you specifically to stay near the van."

"You did not specify the meaning of 'near' in this case," Neal pointed out. "Compared to being in, say, Venice, I was quite close to the van."

Peter was just shaking his head. "I don't know why I even try."

Neal flashed his brightest smile – the one that never fooled Peter anyway – and then turned his attention back to the file. "Loughler hasn't shown up at the parole office yet?"

"No, I called there when I got this report. They've had no contact."

"So we still have no idea where he is?"

"None, but I have bulletins out with NYPD and the Marshals are doing their own fugitive search. With the Bureau looking too, we'll ferret him out. I always get my man, you know."

It was Neal's turn to roll his eyes. "Maybe you should be a Canadian Mountie."

"I do like horses."

"What about the red uniforms?"

"Not my first choice."

"Wow, you _do_ have _some_ fashion sense. Maybe I'm rubbing off on you."

"El's influence, not yours." Peter picked up the file and pointed at the door. "I'm going to brief Ruiz. Want to come?"

Neal shook his head, pointing at the stack of files on his desk. "My boss is a real task master. He wouldn't want me slacking."

"Your boss is a peach of a guy, who could possibly be talked into buying lunch if you have that Kimble report done by the time he gets back."

"That sounds suspiciously like bribery."

"I'd call it motivation," Peter countered. "Is it working?"

"I'm hungry – it'll be done."

Peter just laughed and headed for the doors. Neal watched him go, and then pulled out his phone. The Kimble report was actually done, just waiting for him to proofread and submit. So he had a little bit of time…

Maybe he'd just see what Mozzie could dig up on this Damon Loughler guy.

* * *

Vasily Lyovkin had actually been out of town for a few days, and it had been made very clear to Damon that he wasn't senior enough in the organization to ask where the boss had been. But that meant it was nearly a week after the busted drug delivery before he got to talk to Lyovkin.

Fortunately, Vasily – they were on a first name basis now – was appreciative of his efforts. Damon managed to point out, very subtly, that he had been right in calling the attempted delivery as a set up for the Feds.

Lyovkin had laughed and said he knew, and Damon realized he had passed some sort of test he hadn't even been aware he was taking.

The Russian was also very interested in the observations Damon provided from the scene of the busted drug operation. He recognized the photo of the Organized Crime agent, Ruiz, as one he and his men had tangled with before.

Lyovkin had not recognized the photo of Burke, so Damon was able to put his own spin on things. This agent was very dangerous, he assured the Russian. It would be good to gather information on him, to know the enemy.

_And that might lead to the opportunity for revenge that Damon so richly desired – and deserved._

* * *

_April… before the fall_

"Hey, do you have plans for lunch today?"

Neal looked up, grinning. "Are you asking me out on a lunch date, Peter?"

"No, but my wife is. Actually, asking both of us."

"Sounds a little kinky, but I could be persuaded."

"Right. I'm afraid the purpose might be a little less salacious than what you're implying."

Neal sighed, rather dramatically. "Ah, well. Can't have everything."

"I'm glad you're finally starting to grasp that concept!"

"Oh, believe me, four years in Sing Sing beat that lesson into me. So, what's the occasion today?"

"El's working on some of the final plans for the Art in the Park event in a couple of weeks."

"Right. Sophie mentioned that her other event planner had a family emergency."

"Yes, and Elizabeth thanks you for the recommendation you gave her. But now there's a lot of work to do, and not much time to do it in."

"So she's calling in reinforcements?"

"Apparently."

"What are we helping with?"

Peter shook his head. "No idea. I'm not sure if she wants you for your palate, or your muscles."

"Well, we know she didn't ask for you for _your_ palate," Neal muttered, though, of course, loud enough that Peter could catch it. _Wouldn't be much fun tweaking the older man if he couldn't hear it._

"And she obviously won't be hiring you for your stand-up comedy talent," Peter volleyed back.

Neal laughed; it was exchanges like this that made days filled with cold case files bearable. "What time does she want us there?"

"Noon sharp." And now Peter's grin took on a slightly evil touch. "Plenty of time for you to finish up the detailed report on the Palmer case."

"I don't know. I might be more creative after a break, and some hors d'oeuvre samples."

Peter tossed his hands up in his standard _'Neal is driving me crazy'_ manner. "Accurate, Neal. The goal of a report is _accuracy_, not creativity."

Neal's grin widened as he watched Peter's retreating back, and then he turned his attention back to the report in front of him. Since he refused to acknowledge that _accurate_ reports couldn't also be _creative_, this was going to be good.

* * *

It was nice of the Feds to have this plaza outside their building, Damon decided. He was particularly pleased with the wrought iron benches that provided a comfortable place to sit, as well as a clear sight line to the main entrance.

He'd been out here frequently over the last couple of weeks, always watching for his target. One of the things he had learned from his arrest and prison time was that he hadn't always planned his operations out as well as he could have. Many times he'd gotten away with it but, with the benefit of lots of time to think while being locked away for twelve years, he could see where he'd gotten very lucky a few times. And he could see where he could have tightened up that final operation that had led to his enforced timeout.

Courtesy of Agent Peter Burke.

As expected, Lyovkin's contacts had had no problem tracing the license plate number he had obtained at the restaurant. The information had led him to a residential area in the Fort Greene neighborhood in Brooklyn. He'd scoped out the area, gathering intel to help him formulate his perfect plan of revenge.

For instance, he knew that the Burkes lived in a townhouse, in a row of townhouses. That meant that there was no way to access the side of the house, because it connected directly to the next one. That wasn't necessarily an insurmountable problem, but it did limit possibilities. And the street seemed well lit at night, something that was both good and bad. It always helped to be able to see what you were doing yourself, but it was not good in his line of work to be too easily seen by others.

Unlike some townhouse areas, there was a narrow alley behind these, giving access to the small backyards. He had counted down, figuring out which one belonged to Burke. There was a tall fence across the back – tall enough that he had to pull a concrete block from behind the neighbor's yard over and stand on it to see into the yard. The lock on the gate was good, but nothing he couldn't overcome, and the yard was small, so not a lot of ground to cover to the patio and the rear door. But…

There were unmistakable signs of a dog. A couple of areas showed evidence of recent digging, and there were several tennis balls that showed distinct signs of chewing. A filled water bowl was sitting next to the lattice wall on the patio, and a pooper scooper was leaning nearby.

A dog wasn't an insurmountable obstacle either, of course. They died just as easily with a bullet to the head as a person. But, a dog could make a lot of noise first, and that could be a problem. He filed the information away for future reference.

Burke left at different times each day, so there wasn't a pattern to be observed. He generally got into a black Ford Taurus; one morning Damon had been able to casually stroll by, just as dawn was starting to color the sky. Between that and the nearest streetlight, he could see the extra features, like flashing lights, that meant Burke was driving a company car. And a couple of times he had a Ford Explorer, also black, which left no doubt about being a law enforcement vehicle.

Then there was the woman. As he had guessed at the restaurant, she and Burke were together. She also seemed to leave and arrive at irregular times, at least from the few observations he had. Her vehicle was a dark blue Honda minivan – the same vehicle he had seen in Brighton Beach. Since she wasn't his primary target, Damon had never followed her.

Yet.

So, with the Brooklyn location scouted, he switched his attention to Manhattan and the Federal building. He also had duties for Lyovkin, of course, so he couldn't devote as much time to his surveillance as he'd like.

_But if their upcoming operation went well, and Lyovkin was pleased with his assistance, maybe the Russian would be willing to assign a couple of men to help Damon with his task. After all, the Russians weren't exactly fond of the Feds themselves. And they __were__ particularly fond of revenge. _

When he had time to watch the Federal building, Damon planned his schedule to get there by mid-morning, and stay as long into the afternoon as he could. There were a couple of coffee shops nearby. Feds were cops, and cops loved coffee, right? And even Feds had to eat, which meant his target could head for any of the many restaurants in the area, or to the food carts that set up in the plaza.

He'd been rewarded a few times when Burke had come out, heading to one of the coffee places. But he was never alone. The younger, dark haired man from the restaurant was usually with him, and sometimes one or two others; agents, from the way they dressed.

The dark haired man he couldn't quite figure. The suits he wore were definitely _not_ your standard FBI wear, not from what he could tell based on the other people coming and going from that building.

Not that it really mattered, of course. It was just something to ponder while he waited for his target to appear.

_Like right now…_

There he was, Peter Burke. And the mystery man. The two of them walked out of the main doors about twenty minutes before noon, turning his way. They seemed to be engaged in an intense conversation, with lots of hand gestures. It was unlikely Burke would recognize him after so many years, and especially not when he seemed so preoccupied with whatever they were discussing. Damon used a newspaper to partially shield his face anyway.

Once they were safely past his bench, he casually got to his feet and started to follow. This wasn't the way to one of the coffee shops, so maybe it would turn out to be something he could use for his plans.

* * *

"Hey, guys."

Peter stepped forward, grabbing a quick kiss from his wife. "Hi, hon."

Neal took his turn next, exchanging a quick kiss to the cheek with her. "Elizabeth."

She turned away, pointing toward the back room. "Thanks for coming. There's so much to pull together, and not much time left."

Neal stepped aside, letting Peter go through the doorway first. "Sophie really appreciates you taking on the project at the last minute like this."

"Well, I understand how important this event is for Art Class. She is so passionate about it!"

Neal nodded. "It's a cause that means a lot to her."

Elizabeth pointed them toward a table in the break area. "Sophie's quite impressed with your assistance too, Neal. And that's why I thought you'd be good to help verify the menu choices."

"Glad to help."

"What about me?" Peter asked. "Need someone to taste test the beer selection?"

"Oh, something much more important." Elizabeth grinned, giving Neal a conspiratorial wink off to the side.

Peter watched the whole exchange and just shook his head. "Why do I get the feeling I'm not going to like this much?"

"Honey, it's vital to the event." Elizabeth worked the innocent eye blinking on her husband who, as usual, folded.

"All right, tell me," Peter said.

Elizabeth took his hand and led him toward the back door. "Sophie has arranged for one of the maintenance sheds to store all of the supplies in before the event," she started, pointing at a large stack of boxes. "And all of this is getting in the way here." So," she continued, opening the door to reveal a delivery van. "It all needs to get loaded in here. And honey," she said, dropping her voice to a low purr. "I could really use your muscles here."

Neal started to laugh. "Muscles," he said, semi-disguising it as a cough.

Peter shot him an evil eyed glare, one that just seemed to promise more reports in Neal's future. To his wife, however, he replied, in his most conciliatory tone. "Happy to help, honey." He stripped off his suit coat, rolled up his sleeves, paused for one more glare back at Neal, and then lifted the first box.

Elizabeth smiled and turned back to Neal. "Ready to taste test?"

Neal spared one more glance at Peter, crawling into the back of the cargo van to start stacking the load. "My palate is at your service, milady," he said, bowing slightly.

She laughed and took his arm. "I thought we'd start with some antipasto…"

* * *

_Burke Premier Events…_

This was a stroke of luck, and another way to find information on his target. And fortunately, there was a coffee shop directly across the way. Damon ordered a sandwich and a large coffee and then found a seat at the counter that looked out over the street.

He ate slowly, not wanting to miss anything. And it was just over an hour later when the two men came back out. Burke looked a little worse for wear – carrying his suit coat, sleeves rolled up, hair a bit disheveled.

Damon almost would have wondered if Burke and his missus were meeting for a little afternoon delight – but then why bring the other man? The mystery guy was still nattily dressed, not a cufflink out of place.

Not that it really mattered why the men were there, of course. This was just a chance to get more facts.

He'd used his phone to look up some information on the business. Event planning – what the hell kind of business was that anyway? In his world, if you wanted a party, you went to the store, got some food and beer, maybe a balloon or two, depending on the occasion. Or you called a restaurant and booked a table.

He waited about ten minutes after the two men disappeared down the street, and then he drained his cup. He dropped his trash in the can on the way out; that was important, because employees tended to remember slobs they had to pick up after. And he left a tip – not too large, not too small, just enough to make the employees happy. Not that he expected anyone to pick up on who he was, or what he was about to do. But being prepared was always the best plan, and it was those little things that could trip you up.

There were a couple of NYPD patrol officers halfway down the block, chatting with someone on the sidewalk. So Damon went down to the corner and waited for the traffic signal to turn before using the crosswalk. No jaywalking when it might draw attention.

He stopped outside the shop, looking in. The walls were lined with various plate ware and decorations. Samples of what could be provided, he guessed. He couldn't see anyone in the front room, but obviously there must be more to the business beyond what was visible.

A bell rang when Damon opened the door, and he could hear someone moving in a back room.

And then she walked out, the dark haired woman he had seen at the restaurant. Smiling, she walked toward him. "Hi, can I help you?"

"Yes, ma'am, I hope so," he said, letting a soft drawl touch his voice. _Thank goodness for the southern boys he had done time with._ "You see, I just moved to the city for a job, and my boss has put me in charge of setting up a big shindig for some of our major clients. Being new here and all, I figure it's a job for a professional."

"Well, you've come to the right place." She held her hand out. "I'm Elizabeth Burke."

"Paul Sherrod," he replied, shaking her hand. _Paul was one of the southerners who had taught him to use words like shindig…_ "Now, is this a bad time? I'm new to this kind of thing. Maybe I should have made an appointment."

"I do usually work by appointment," she replied. "But I have about fifteen minutes now before I have to leave for a meeting. Maybe we can get started with some basics, and then schedule a time to work on the details."

"That would be most appreciated, ma'am," he said, in his most polite manner. "I'm glad I came now, and didn't barge in while you were with someone."

Elizabeth Burke gestured for him to follow her toward a desk in the back. "Actually, you just missed my husband and his partner. They stopped by to help me with an event we have coming up."

"Oh, and what would that be?" He tried to keep his voice calm. "Like I said, I'm new here, so if it's something public, it might help me get my bearings."

"As a matter of fact, it is open to everyone. It's called Art in the Park. Here, let me get you a flyer…"

* * *

"Hmmmm, that's strange."

Peter looked up from perusing the sports section in the newspaper. He was pretty sure El hadn't been saying anything before that, so this wasn't one of the cases where he had missed a question she had asked him. Or, worse, missed some casual comment, that really was not so casual in her mind, and failed to respond. "What's the matter?"

She set her cell phone down on the counter and came over to the couch, sitting next to him. "Oh, just a potential new client. He came into the shop just after you and Neal left today. I didn't have much time to spend with him before the meeting with the Channing, so he gave me a phone number and said I could leave a message about setting up another meeting. But the number is disconnected."

"Anything strange about this guy?"

"No, not really. I mean, he seemed a little uncomfortable when we were talking, but he said he'd never had to do any event work before. I figured he was just in a little bit over his head."

"Did he give you a name?"

"Paul Sherrod. He said the company name was Overload Hunger Legmen. They work with imported goods, sending them out to needy people. They're the 'leg men,' so to speak."

"Do you want me to run a quiet check on them?"

Elizabeth considered that for a moment and then shook her head. "No, I don't think so. Paul said he was new to the city and the company – he probably just got the number wrong. I'll see if Yvonne can track down a phone number tomorrow."

Peter's arm wrapped around her, pulling her close. "All right. Just let me know if you change your mind."

* * *

"Ever hear of this guy, or the company?"

Neal looked at the note Peter had dropped on his desk. "Paul Sherrod and Overload Hunger Legman? No, I don't think so. Is this part of a case?"

"No, just someone who showed up at El's office yesterday, right after we left. But the number he gave her is bogus, and the name of the company… there's just something off about it."

"Legmen? I don't think that's even a real word."

"Supposedly, they're the 'leg men' distributing imported supplies to needy parties."

"So, a charity of some sort?" Neal asked.

"Maybe. At least they're trying to appear that way. But the timing, showing up just after us. And you think you saw someone…"

"No, Peter, I _know_ I saw someone following us."

"But you don't know what happened to him."

Neal shook his head. "There was that group of shoppers…"

"You mean the women who all stopped to flirt with you?"

Neal shrugged, giving his best innocent look. "What can I say? I'm popular."

Peter sighed, shaking his head. "We really need to go back to discussing the concept of humility. But back to the topic at hand. You didn't see this guy again after that?"

"No, by the time we crossed that last intersection, I'd lost track of him."

"And you didn't get a good look at him?"

"Like I said yesterday, Peter, he had a baseball cap on, pulled kind of low. I couldn't see his face."

"And the physical description didn't narrow things down much."

"Sorry. I mean, he was a big guy, but nothing really stood out." Neal paused looking down at the note again. "You think it might be the same guy?"

"I don't know," Peter admitted. "El said he was a big guy, but no cap, and no jacket like you described. Probably just a coincidence."

"Sure. I mean, Burke Premier Events _is_ a well-known company now, what with all of the big soirées Elizabeth has done."

"Yeah, and the fact that there's nothing on this company with a Google search doesn't necessarily mean anything…"

"Except that it would be highly unusual for a company to avoid any mention on the internet," Neal finished.

"Exactly. The thing is, staying off the internet is not a crime, so that's not enough for me to open an official case file. But maybe…"

"I could ask Mozzie if he's heard of them," Neal suggested.

"Like I said, it's probably nothing. But this guy was with El…"

"Moz will be happy to help. He's actually kind of excited about this private detective thing. I'm sure you'll get his bill."

"About that – how the hell did he get that last bill baked into a loaf of bread?"

Neal laughed and shook his head. "I have no idea."

"Well, remind him that I need a social security number before any invoices can be paid."

"Yeah, I'll do that. And I'll ask June too. She's on a lot of benefit boards. If this is a new charity, maybe she's heard of them."

"Thanks, Neal. Probably nothing to worry about…"

"I'll let you know what I find out."


	5. Crash

_Knock KNOCK. Knock KNOCK. Knock KNOCK._

Neal straightened up from the canvas he was working on, looking over at the door. "It's open, Moz."

"This guy is a specter, Neal. A ghost."

Neal set his palette down, and rinsed off his brush. "We're talking about Paul Sherrod?" he asked. "And hello to you too."

"Yes, Paul Sherrod, and this Legmen supposed import company. And hello."

"Yeah, June didn't recognize the company either. It's not a place she's dealt with on any of her benefit work."

"Of which there is a multitude," Mozzie said. He pulled a goblet out of the cabinet and helped himself to some of the wine Neal had open. "This guy was really threatening Mrs. Suit?"

"No threat, really," Neal replied. He sat down at the table and refilled his own glass. "Just someone who showed up at Elizabeth's office. And that was right after someone seemed to be following Peter and me."

"But you couldn't identify him."

"No, never got a clear enough look; it was really more of a feeling."

"Your intuition has been known to be particularly canny on occasion."

"Thanks, I think."

Mozzie didn't clarify his previous remark, just pressed on with a question. "What did you notice about him?"

Neal closed his eyes, trying to picture the vague figure. "He was tall, probably six three, maybe six four. And I got the impression of a lot of muscle. Hard to be sure, because of the jacket. But there was just something about the way he carried himself." He looked up again. "That's about it."

Mozzie nodded, taking a seat across the table. "I just happen to have some free time the next few days. I'll spend some of it in the vicinity of Mrs. Suit's shop, see if any body builders show up."

"Thanks, Moz. It's probably nothing."

"Everything points to something. Tell the Suit he'll get my bill."

"Yeah, Peter said to remind you he needs a social security number."

"Ha! As if I would stoop to be identified in such a bourgeois, elitist…"

Neal just grinned and leaned back in his chair, sipping his wine. There was no sense trying to stop Mozzie now, in mid-rant, so there was little to do but just wait it out.

Like usual.

* * *

"And this FBI agent will be there, at this event?"

Damon nodded. "He will, Vasily. I've talked to his wife."

The Russian didn't appear totally convinced. "There will be many people at this park. So many possible witnesses. What if you are seen?"

"I'll use the chase car – with your permission, of course. It has all of the reinforcement necessary, and the windows won't allow anyone to see me. And with all of the people around, it will be easier to make my action seem like a random accident."

Lyovkin leaned back in his chair, considering the proposal for a moment. "This agent, he is the one you blame for your arrest and imprisonment, is he not?"

_Damn, Damon had hoped Lyovkin wouldn't check into Burke…_ "He is," Damon admitted, trying to make it sound like that fact didn't really mean anything. "I admit, it would be sweet to get some revenge. But truly, I am thinking of you, Vasily. Burke is a danger to your operation. That is my sole consideration."

The Russian's answering smile was small, tight, and indicated he didn't really buy Damon's explanation. But then he nodded slowly. "I could use something to take the attention off of my operation before the large shipment we are expecting next month. You bring me some more detail on how you would do this, to make it seem like an accident, and we will talk again." Lyovkin paused, raising a finger in warning. "This cannot be allowed to bring _more_ attention to my business dealings."

Damon shook his head quickly. "No sir, it will not do that. I will bring you more detail. Thank you, Vasily."

He bowed to the older man, and left the room, happy with what he had achieved.

_His day of revenge – Burke's day of reckoning – was nigh at hand._

* * *

"Neal!"

Neal looked up to find Peter at the railing, giving him the double-finger point. He'd seen Ruiz come in earlier, and go up to the upper level, and the two agents had been talking together for nearly an hour.

Now, apparently, his presence was being commanded.

Jones was grinning as Neal got to his feet. "Man, what'd you do, Caffrey?"

Neal offered up his most innocent smile. "Maybe they just want to commend me on my dashing sense of style, my quick wit, my excellent personal hygiene, the enhanced camaraderie with me on the team…"

"Won't be about your humility," Diana muttered.

"Possibly about my brilliant assistance in the pursuit of truth and justice," Neal countered, nimbly ducking the pencil she tossed at him on his way past her desk.

Peter and Ruiz had moved into the conference room, and they had an array of photos spread out over the large table. Neal recognized Vasily Lyovkin and some of his primary henchmen in several of them.

Peter was pointing at a couple of photos near the window. "Ruiz's people have been doing surveillance on Lyovkin's group."

Neal leaned in, studying the shots. "And it looks like they found Damon Loughler along the way."

"Yeah, he's been showing up at a lot of the meetings," Ruiz confirmed. "And now there might be a new problem."

Peter pointed to another photo. "Recognize the other guy here?"

Neal picked up the print. It showed Loughler, in a booth, apparently at a restaurant. Another man was visible on the other side, a large envelope between them. "Yeah, that's Bucky."

"He still in the phony ID business?" Ruiz asked.

"Last I knew, but I haven't really been keeping track." Neal set the photo back on the table. "Want me to check with my street sources?"

"Yeah, ask Haversham," Peter replied. "If Bucky is still doing ID, and he made a new one for Loughler…"

"It could help us put a few more pieces together." Ruiz tapped a couple of photos for emphasis. "This Loughler guy is meeting regularly with the big Russian himself. My team didn't have enough coverage to follow everyone, so we don't know where he is."

"But if we could find out his new name, that might help." Neal picked up one of the photos that showed Loughler by himself. "Can I take this one? Loughler may not have given Bucky his real name."

"Yeah, take it," Ruiz agreed. "How long do you think it will take?"

"I'll see my source tonight," Neal said. _Mozzie was planning to come over for some wine… and maybe a game of chess._ "But when I knew Bucky, he tended to move around a lot. Paranoia is kind of a big trait in guys like this. So it just depends on how long it's been since my source has seen him."

"Any pressure we can put on this source?" Ruiz asked.

Peter jumped in before Neal could say anything. "No, we really can't pressure this source too much. But he's come through for us before."

"Quite a few times," Neal added.

Ruiz sighed and started to gather up the photos. "All right, I'll leave it with you. But all the signs point to something big coming up, so the sooner we locate this guy, the better."

* * *

"Hey, Moz."

Neal shut the door behind him, smiling slightly at the sight that greeted him. He'd long since given up being surprised to find his friend in the apartment when he got home; Mozzie had a strange concept of personal boundaries at times. Like now, when the older man was seated on his couch, feet up on the coffee table, a glass of wine in his hand.

"Oh, welcome home."

Neal slipped his suit coat off and worked on loosening his tie. "You know, in a normal situation, I'd come home to an empty house. And then, sometime later, there would be a knock on the door, and I'd open it to admit a visitor."

"Oh, right, _normal._" Mozzie used his free hand to make a one-handed air quote, apparently not willing to relinquish his hold on the wine glass.

Neal draped his jacket over a chair by the table and opened the envelope he had brought home. He walked toward the couch and handed over the photo it contained.

Mozzie finally set his glass down, studying the photo. "This is Damon Loughler. You were asking about him before."

"Right, and he's still missing. But we got some new information today."

"Such as?"

"We have photos of him meeting with Bucky."

"You think he's got a new ID?"

"One of the photos shows an envelope being passed. So it's a pretty good guess."

Mozzie nodded. "And I assume that knowing Loughler's current _nom de plume_ would help find him."

"Pretty good chance. Do you know where Bucky is?"

"I can reach out. Should I assume this is of an urgent nature?"

"Loughler was into some pretty bad stuff before he went to prison. And Lyovkin…"

"Is worse," Mozzie finished. "I'd be happy to see him gone. Brutes like Lyovkin give the rest of us in the less than fully compliant with governmental regulations world a bad name."

Neal raised an eyebrow, smiling. "Less than fully compliant?"

"Not that I ascribe any validity to the power of the Man to control anyone's life."

"Of course not."

Mozzie put the photo of the table and picked up his wine glass again. "I haven't personally seen Bucky for a while. But Marv the Mohican mentioned seeing him just the other day."

"Is Marv really a Mohican?"

"No. But I think he's seen the movie about a thousand times."

"Right. And you can find Marv?"

"He has a standing high stakes poker game on Friday nights. But I can check with him tomorrow."

"You're not coming to the Art in the Park event?"

Mozzie gave an exaggerated shudder. "Too many people, and germs."

Neal just smiled and shook his head. "All right, let me know what Marv has to say." He headed for the table, picking up his jacket. "I'm going to change. You're still up for a game tonight?"

Mozzie nodded and got to his feet. "I'll set the board up. Right after I refill my glass…"

* * *

_Early May_… before the fall

It had turned out to be a wonderful spring day in New York. The sun was out, bringing temperatures into the range where people were venturing out in short sleeves, and sometimes even in shorts and flip-flops.

Personally, Neal thought the flip-flops should be reserved for the pool or the beach, but a glorious day like this didn't warrant thinking about things like that for very long. And as for shorts, he wore them during the summer when he went out for a run – with a sock pulled up over the tracking anklet; that was something he'd learned on one of his early jogging excursions after getting out of prison. As for his swimming routine at the gym, he'd figured out early on that the late night crowd there didn't really pay much attention to anyone else.

People had electronics of every manner and shape these days, but a tracking anklet was still something that gave a lot of people pause. He'd opted for jeans today, just slightly flared near the ankle. A v-neck shirt and a lightweight sport coat completed his attire.

Weather aside, the Art in the Park event was an even bigger success than he had anticipated. Sophie had been worried all along, and no amount of reassurance had been able to allay her fears. But he'd just seen her a few minutes ago, and she was all smiles. People were having a wonderful time, the assorted vendors were doing well, the events set up for children had drawn huge participation, and her Art Class charity had received numerous promises of new supporters.

Burke Premier Events had, as usual, organized an excellent food service. Even though he had helped with the final menu selections, the outdoor setting made everything taste different – in this case, better. The fresh air seemed to enhance the flavors.

Neal was even quite pleased with his own contributions. Sophie had talked him into doing some of the artwork for decorating the stage. He was usually reticent to let anyone see his original work, and he was always his own harshest critic. But the abstract panels he had done, while quite different from his usual style, had actually worked quite well, adding color and depth to the background, while not overpowering anyone who was on the stage.

A couple of Sophie's backers had even asked him to do some work for events they were organizing. He had promised to meet with them in the near future to discuss the options.

It was mid-afternoon now, and things were starting to wind down. The band was playing its last set, the caterers were starting to clean up the serving tables, and the animal handlers had arrived to herd the popular residents of the petting zoo back into their transportation containers.

"Well, if it isn't the famous artist himself."

Neal smiled, turning around to see Peter and Elizabeth walking toward him. Yvonne Barton, Elizabeth's assistant manager, was with them.

Elizabeth was nodding at her husband's words. "Do you think he'll still talk to the little people like us, when he's all famous?"

Neal ignored the needling and spoke to Yvonne instead. "What would it take to get you to have dinner with a famous artist?"

She considered that for a moment. "Well, you could try _asking_."

"Hmmmm, is _that_ how it works?"

"It's been known to. And I happen to understand that you already know my number."

"That information may have been provided to me at one point. So if I called…"

"I'd probably answer."

"And if you did answer, and I asked you to dinner…"

She grinned. "You'll have to try it and find out."

Neal returned the grin. "Oh, a challenge!"

Yvonne's phone rang just then, and she answered, listening briefly. "Yes, I'll be right there," she said, before disconnecting the call. "The caterer is ready to close up. I'll go and make sure everything is handled."

"Thanks for handling the closing," Elizabeth said.

"Well, you got up early to do the set up," Yvonne replied. "It's only fair. Enjoy the rest of your day."

"Keep your phone on!" Neal called as she started to walk away.

Yvonne just raised a hand in acknowledgement and kept walking.

Neal turned around to find Peter slowly shaking his head. "What?"

"Do you ever stop?"

"Stop what?"

"Flirting."

Neal grinned. "It's just a natural part of who I am, Peter."

The older man sighed and shook his head. "Of course."

"I can't help it that I have a natural charm about me."

"Oh, good grief…"

Elizabeth laughed and took her husband's arm. "Enough. I think Yvonne and Neal have quite a bit in common."

Peter cocked an eyebrow at that. "Don't tell me she's been embezzling from the company."

Neal put on his best offended look. "Hey, I never embezzled."

"No, I suppose not. Because you have to actually be _employed_ to embezzle…"

"Boys, boys." Elizabeth took Neal's arm with her other hand and turned the two men toward the street. "Do the two of you ever manage to get together and _not_ bicker?"

Neal and Peter exchanged a look over her head. "No, not really," Peter admitted.

"It's too much fun," Neal added.

They all laughed as Elizabeth steered them toward the van. The Honda was parked just behind one of the catering trucks.

"Neal, would you like a ride home?" she offered.

"No, I promised Sophie I'd help her with a couple of things. But thanks."

"Probably flirting with her too," Peter grumbled.

Neal laughed and leaned closer to Elizabeth. "Do you think he's upset because I don't flirt with him?"

"You know, I think you might be on to something there," Elizabeth agreed, obviously straining to keep a straight face.

Peter opened his mouth to reply, but stopped suddenly when his wife gasped. "Hon, are you all right?"

She took a couple of deep breaths and nodded, then pulled his hand to her belly. "Your daughter has been quite active today."

The soft smile on Peter's face as he felt the baby kick made Neal smile too. "Daughter?"

"Yeah, we just found out on Thursday," Peter said.

"You _were_ looking unnaturally happy yesterday morning at the office."

"Unnaturally… When am I _not_ happy at work?"

"Well…"

Elizabeth sighed and reached for Neal's hand, pulling him gently closer. "Let's talk baby, not work. Would you like to feel her?"

Neal found that the question made him unusually nervous. "Is it all right?" Elizabeth nodded, pressing his hand against her. Almost immediately he could feel the movement. "Wow."

"Yeah. I think she's going to be a gymnast," Elizabeth said. "I swear she's doing cartwheels."

"You know, that can be a very useful skill…" Neal started.

Peter rolled his eyes and groaned. "Great. He's already planning her criminal career."

"How do you know I was going to suggest anything illegal?"

"Oh, you weren't going to say a useful skill for a cat burglar?"

"No, I wasn't. But now that you mention it…"

Elizabeth sighed and dug out her keys. "I swear, the two of you aren't happy unless you have something to argue about."

"We're not arguing," Peter insisted. "I'm just not letting him anywhere near our daughter during her formative years."

"And how long does that last?" Neal wondered.

"Until she's at least thirty," Peter declared.

Elizabeth was just shaking her head, walking ahead to escape the bickering. She raised her arm slightly to click the remote for the van, and as she did, the event folder she was carrying fell to the ground.

Peter had already started around to the other side of the van, so Neal hurried to help. "Here, let me get that," he said, bending down to gather up the loose papers that had fallen out.

"Thanks, Neal." Elizabeth pointed to a couple of pages that had blown up near the front of the van. "I'll just get those."

Neal finished putting the pages back into the folder and straightened up. He took a step toward Elizabeth, and then stopped suddenly as something caught his attention.

A large black vehicle was coming toward them, speeding up, angling in toward the curb…

"Peter, look out!"

Peter had opened the door, but was still standing in the street, his back to the approaching danger. He turned partway, saw the car, and tried to dive inside the van.

Neal wasn't immediately sure if his partner had made it, because all of a sudden the quiet of the afternoon was pierced by the sound of metal screeching against metal, crumpling under a heavy impact.

And a scream…

* * *

The vehicles met with a satisfying _crunch_. The collision sent Damon lurching forward, but the reinforced harness that had replaced the regular seat and shoulder belt did its job, keeping him from directly impacting against the steering wheel or the dashboard.

The heavy plating on the vehicle did its job as well. The modified town car drove like a lumbering beast, but it was the most secure transportation a civilian could buy. Vasily Lyovkin had purchased two as his illegal activities increased in frequency and intensity. The cars also came equipped with bullet resistant glass and special drive-flat tires that would not be rendered useless in case of puncture.

The town car came to a lurching stop, its hood buried in the side of the van. It took a moment for Damon to shake off the effects of the impact, and then he quickly took stock. With all of the other safety features, the air bags had been modified in the town car to only deploy at high speed; therefore, he didn't have to worry about digging out from behind the bags now. The windshield showed a couple of small cracks, but otherwise had held. And a quick glance showed no visible damage to the front end of the car.

With a normal vehicle, he figured the car would have been crumpled, probably as far back as the passenger compartment.

There were people gathering – _including that dark haired stranger he'd seen with the Burkes before._ The car's windows were tinted, so he wasn't worried about being identified, but spectators meant cell phones, and that meant people calling for help. And he couldn't exactly count on winning a high speed chase in a car that drove like a Sherman tank.

It would have been nice to verify that Burke was dead, but he really couldn't wait. Damon threw the gear selector into reverse, feeling the resistance as the town car dug its way out from the confines of the smashed van. And then, once he was free, Damon shifted into drive and hit the gas.

Even with his foot pressing the accelerator to the floor, the heavy car barely registered twenty miles an hour when he reached the first intersection. He threw the car into a left hand turn against a red light, ignoring the bleating of horns around him.

He'd get the car a few blocks away and then ditch it in favor of a vehicle that would actually move and be maneuverable in the city traffic.

And then he'd wait, watching the news for the story he wanted to see.

_FBI agent killed in hit and run…_


	6. Emergency

Instinct made Neal jump back as the vehicles collided, even though he was actually well back from the street. But in times like that, rational thought wasn't always the first avenue taken.

Shattered glass blew out from the van, and he covered his eyes for a moment. By the time he dropped his arm, the big black car was reversing, and then pulling away.

He was aware of voices around him, people heading that way. "Call 9-1-1," he shouted. "Get help!" And then he dropped the folder he was still holding and ran toward the van.

It was a one way street, so the driver's door was nearest to him. The whole frame of the van was bent, but with a few strong tugs, his foot braced against the van's body, and straining his muscles to their limit, he managed to open the door.

Peter was sprawled across the seat, mostly inside the vehicle. Neal couldn't see his right leg amidst the crumpled metal, but his primary concern was finding a pulse. He pressed his fingers against the agent's neck, blowing out a breath of relief when he found a fast, but steady, pulse. And he could see Peter's chest rising and falling, so he was breathing.

A quick check showed a lump on Peter's head, and a cut near his hairline. Blood on the gear shift showed where the injury had come from.

Neal pushed himself up, trying for a better view. His original impression was confirmed – Peter's right leg was trapped in the crushed metal that had been the side of the van. Even if he had considered it safe to try and move Peter, it wasn't likely that he could free the other man alone.

So far he hadn't seen or smelled anything to indicate a fire, so it was probably safest to just not do anything else. Maybe the impact had been far enough forward so that the gas tank hadn't been ruptured. He'd check…

_Elizabeth!_

Neal jumped out of the seat, hurrying toward the front of the van, where he had last seen her…

_And oh my god, she was still there…_

The impact had driven the van forward, and the front bumper was pinning her to the delivery truck just above her knees. Her body had fallen backward, sprawled across the crumpled hood of the van. The side of her head seemed misshapen, her hair covered in blood…

And possibly something else he didn't even want to think about.

There was a corresponding sickeningly red stain on the lift gate of the truck.

More people were running toward them, but Neal blocked the activity out of his mind. He did the same check for a pulse – and found none. There was no visible movement of her chest, and when he leaned close, he could feel no sign of breath against his cheek.

Fighting his gag reflex at the smell of the blood so close, he leaned even closer, trying to remember the CPR skills he'd learned years ago.

_Thank goodness for that summer job as a lifeguard._

He definitely remembered that the first rule was not to move someone who was injured. But the second rule was to break rule number one if the injured person wasn't breathing and had no pulse.

He got Elizabeth as close to flat on the hood as he could, pinched her nose closed, and blew in three deep breaths. Her chest rose with each one – but there was no response when he stopped.

He leaned over, pressing his ear to her chest, hoping to hear something he hadn't been able to feel. But the only thing he felt was the baby moving.

_Just moments ago that had been a sign of happy times._

Neal moved on to chest compressions. Two fingers, under the sternum, heel of one hand down, cover with the other hand and press. Over and over and over…

He tried to ignore the blood that spread over his hands, up his arms.

He felt hands pulling at him, and he shrugged them off, concentrating on continuing compressions. _Once you start, you can't stop. Not until help arrives…_

"Sir. Sir! Please, let us help her."

Neal finally looked, recognizing the EMS uniforms of the man and woman standing there. They had gotten there fast…

_Of course, Sophie had arranged to have medical help on site for the event, just in case._

He was certain she had never anticipated something like this.

Neal stepped back, letting the other man move in. "She's not breathing," he said. "And I couldn't find a pulse."

"We'll get her on oxygen," the woman said. She pulled a canister out of their equipment bag and handed it up to her partner.

Neal watched as the man fitted the mask over Elizabeth's face and started the oxygen flowing. He went back to chest compressions. "I need the defibrillator, Jen!"

Jen already had it out of the bag and was hurrying to help her partner. She had the leads attached within seconds – and Neal knew the flat line on the display was not a good sign.

"Ummm, she's pregnant," Neal offered, not sure if that was useful information or not.

"We'll note that before any medications are administered," Jen assured him. She adjusted a dial on the box, watched the readout. "Charged at three hundred, Troy."

Troy applied the paddles, adjusted them slightly, and pressed the buttons. There was a small popping sound, and Elizabeth's body jerked.

Jen had a stethoscope out, and checked Elizabeth quickly. She shook her head. "Charging again." Then she turned to Neal. "Did you check the man inside?"

Neal nodded. "He had a pulse, fast, but steady. And he was breathing. It looked like he hit his head, and his right leg is trapped."

"All right, I'll check him in a moment. And we have help coming." She turned to her partner. "Charged."

The defibrillator kicked in again, and once again Jen's stethoscope failed to pick up a heartbeat. "No capture."

Troy leaned over, starting compressions again. "We'll call it in when the bus gets here, see what we can give her."

"We heard the crash," Jen explained. "But it seemed like we could get on scene faster on foot than trying to get our vehicle through the crowd."

Neal just nodded, watching as Jen moved to the door of the van, reaching in to check on Peter. Then he divided his attention between her and Troy's work on Elizabeth.

"Is there anything I can do?" he asked.

Troy shook his head. "No, sir. But you did fine, starting CPR like that."

"There's so much blood…"

"We have really good doctors at the ER," Troy replied. "We'll get her to the hospital as quick as we can."

Neal turned his attention back to the interior of the van as Jen tried to get a reaction from Peter. "Sir! Sir, can you hear me?"

"His name is Peter. Peter Burke. He's an FBI agent."

Jen had slid back out and crouched down by her supply bag. "Do you know if he has any medical conditions or allergies to drugs?"

"No, not that I know of. He's never mentioned anything."

Jen stood up, holding bandages and a couple of other items. "It's hard to do a full evaluation with the way he's stuck. But you were right. His pulse is steady. I'm going to clean the cut on his head and see if that reveals any other injuries." She paused, looking at him. "Sir, are you injured?"

Neal looked down at his blood stained hands and clothing. "No, I was on the grass when the collision occurred. This is… this is mostly Elizabeth's blood."

"Did you see what happened?"

Neal turned at the sound of a new voice. A uniformed police officer had arrived. "Yes, I did."

The officer – his nametag identified him as Delaney – flipped to a new page in his notebook. "I already got a few statements. But if you were closer…"

Neal looked down at his feet. "I was actually right about here. Maybe a couple of feet back."

"And your name, sir?"

"Neal Caffrey."

"Spell that please." Neal did so, watching as the officer took notes. "And you know the injured people?"

"Yes. We were here together. Peter and Elizabeth Burke. Peter is an FBI agent and Elizabeth…" His voice caught as a mental image of all of the blood flooded his mind. "Elizabeth helped organize the event here today."

Delaney jotted something in his notebook. "And what did you see?"

Neal took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment to picture the scene. "Peter and Elizabeth were leaving. Peter was walking around to the other side of the van, and Elizabeth was getting a couple of papers that had blown up by the front of the van. All of a sudden, I saw a black car – a town car, I think – coming right this way. I yelled, I tried to warn them, but it all happened so fast."

"And what happened next?"

"The car was accelerating." And Neal could feel his pulse accelerating as he tried to remember. He was having trouble catching his breath too. "Aiming right for the van. I saw Peter try to dive inside; I didn't see Elizabeth at all. And then there was a crash."

"Sir, are you saying that this was a deliberate attack?"

Neal considered that for a moment, and then nodded. "Yes, it seemed like it. There was no attempt to avoid the crash that I could see."

"But the car drove away."

"Yes." Neal considered that for a moment. "The driver didn't seem to be having any trouble with the car. And after a collision like that…"

It was Delaney's turn to nod. "A couple of witnesses mentioned the car seemed to be moving slowly for someone making a getaway. It's possible the car was armored."

"Executive town car, that makes sense."

"Did you get a look at the driver?"

"No, the windows were all tinted."

"Any part of the license plate?"

"No, I was ducking as the glass started flying. And then the car was lost behind that truck from where I was standing."

Delaney made a few more notes. "Anything else you can tell me, sir?"

"No, it all happened so fast. And then I was just trying to get in and see if Peter and Elizabeth were injured, and what I could do."

"Yes, sir. I'll just need your contact information, in case the detectives have any questions."

Neal rattled off June's address, his cell phone number, and his office number at the FBI. Just as he finished, the sound of approaching sirens caught his attention.

An ambulance was the first vehicle to arrive, followed closely by a NYPD patrol car. Neal was aware of Delaney moving over to talk to the newly arrived officers. But personally, he kept his attention on the ambulance.

Troy was rattling off a lot of information as the new paramedics descended on the scene with additional equipment that the two first responders hadn't been able to bring along on foot.

Someone had gotten an employee from the catering company over with the keys to the truck, and they were debating how best to protect Elizabeth if they moved the vehicle. And there were two police officers on the other side of the van, trying to pry the passenger door open. But it didn't seem that they were having much luck, and Neal heard words like 'fire department' and 'jaws of life' being used.

He had the overwhelming urge to _do_ something… anything. He just didn't know what that would be. He wasn't even really sure he wanted to call anyone and tell them about the accident until he knew more about the extent of the injuries to his friends.

_Accident…_

That was the word most people usually thought of when considering motor vehicle crashes. But this one wasn't any accident at all, was it. This had been a deliberate attack.

He felt a hand on his arm and looked over to find Jen standing there. She looked concerned as she studied him, and he wondered how bad he looked, between all the blood and the worry.

"Your friend is coming around a bit," she said. "But he's very confused. It might help for him to hear a familiar voice."

Neal took one more look up front, but the paramedics were still working out how to move the truck. One of the new medics had taken over CPR from Troy, who was now consulting on the vehicle question. But there really wasn't much he could contribute there, so he followed Jen toward the van. There was a medic in there with Peter, but he got out, standing just off to one side as Neal slid into the driver's seat.

Peter's eyes were open, but appeared unfocused. Neal reached out, putting a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Peter?"

It took a moment, and Peter seemed to be trying really hard to concentrate. "Neal?" he finally managed to whisper.

"Yeah, it's me, Peter."

"What… what happened?"

"There was an accident," Neal started. _No reason to talk about it being a deliberate act right now – Peter wasn't ready for that._ "A car ran into the van. Do you remember any of that?"

There was a long moment of silence, and then Peter finally gave a small shake of his head. "No, I don't." He paused a moment, apparently struggling with something else. "My leg hurts, and I can't move it."

"Yeah, I know. The fire department is on the way with some equipment to get you out."

Peter took a moment to process that information, and then he nodded. "Okay. Guess I'll wait."

_Not that they really had much choice…_ "Good idea," Neal agreed.

Peter tried to shift a little, and wound up gasping in pain.

Neal applied a little more pressure to his friend's shoulder. "No, just stay still, Peter. Help should be here soon."

"What about El? Is El here? Someone should tell her so she doesn't worry."

Neal swallowed hard, tightening his grip on Peter's shoulder. _How much was the injured man ready to hear?_ "Elizabeth is here," he said softly. "She was with you today."

"She was?" Peter tried to look around. "Where is she?"

"Peter…"

Peter's voice seemed a little stronger, and he struggled to focus. "Neal, where's El?"

"She was hurt, Peter."

"How… how bad?" Peter's voice had dropped back to a whisper.

"I don't know yet, Peter. The paramedics are working on her." _And he was glad Peter's head was down low, so he couldn't see the efforts being expended on his wife on the hood of the van…_

Peter reached out a shaking hand, and Neal grabbed it. "Will you… will you tell her I love her?"

Neal looked up just then as the delivery truck started up, and he watched as four paramedics supported Elizabeth. The truck inched forward, and then two more people were there with a gurney, helping to lay her gently on top now that her legs were free. "I'll tell her, Peter."

"Thanks, Neal."

Neal was still watching them work on Elizabeth. They were still doing chest compressions, though he had seen them try the defibrillator a couple more times; obviously the efforts had been in vain so far. The emergency workers had her strapped down now, and were moving toward a waiting ambulance. "They're taking her to the ambulance now, Peter," he whispered.

"Good, good." Peter's grip weakened, and his hand dropped down again. "Can I have some water?"

"I can go ask. Is it all right if I leave for a minute?" Peter nodded slowly, and Neal started to slide out. "I'll be right back," he promised.

He stood up, taking a moment for a deep breath before heading around the back of the van. The medic who had been waiting outside the van took his vacated spot with Peter. All of the other paramedics were near the first ambulance, working on Elizabeth – and he had no desire to walk in front of the van again; he'd spent enough time there with all of the blood.

One of the police officers tried to keep him away from the gurney, but Troy stepped in, whispering something that Neal couldn't hear. But the officer stepped back.

He was able to get close enough to touch her hand, though her fingers were simply limp, and there were no signs of life. "Peter said to remind you he loves you," he whispered. "But you already know that. And I hope you know there will be so many people pulling for you."

And then the paramedics surrounded Elizabeth again, and he was pulled away. He watched as the gurney was loaded into the ambulance. One of the EMS professionals got in up front, while Troy and one other were in back with Elizabeth. And then the siren came on, and the vehicle pulled away.

Even as that siren faded, another took its place, getting closer. Neal felt a hand on his arm, and he found Jen there, gently leading him out of the street.

"That's the fire department," she explained. "We'll get your friend out of the van when they get here."

Neal nodded absently, wondering how long it had been since the world had gone crazy. Minutes? Hours? He nodded his head in the direction the ambulance had gone. "How is she?"

Later, he'd realize that the delay in the medic's answer was ominous. "I can't really say," she replied carefully. "The doctors are waiting in the emergency room."

Under the circumstances, he just nodded, and then looked back at the van. "Peter was wondering if he could have some water."

"I'm sorry. We haven't been able to fully assess his condition, not the way he's trapped. Giving him oral fluids now could be dangerous."

"I understand." He watched as a fire rescue truck pulled into the space just vacated by the ambulance. "I'm going to tell Peter what's going on," he said, as fire fighters began to get their equipment out.

He walked back around the van, waiting as the paramedic got out so that he could take the seat again. Peter's eyes were closed, but they opened again when Neal spoke. "Peter? They said you can't have any water yet, not until they can get you out of the van."

Peter nodded slowly. "How long?"

Neal wasn't sure if Peter was asking how long he'd already been there, or how long until he would be freed. Since he really didn't know the answer to the first possible question, he answered the second. "The fire department just got here," he said. "They've got the equipment to get you free."

"What about El?"

"They've already taken her to the hospital, Peter. The ambulance left a few minutes ago."

"Good, that's good. Did you tell her?"

Neal fought back the sob that threatened to come out. _He couldn't shake the feeling of dread over the unresponsiveness he'd seen in Elizabeth._ "I told her, Peter," he finally managed to whisper. "I told her you loved her, and we would all be pulling for her."

Peter nodded, closing his eyes again. "Thanks, Neal."

Neal just put his hand on his friend's shoulder, knowing that he had no words left for this situation.

Someone was at the door then, his shadow darkening the interior. "Sir, you'll need to come out now. We're going to start working."

Neal nodded his understanding. He leaned closer to Peter. "I have to go now, so they can work on getting you out of here. But I'll be close by, Peter. All right?"

"All right," Peter agreed, without opening his eyes.

It took all of his will power to actually get out of the van; it just didn't seem right to leave Peter alone. He watched as one of the firefighters got partway in, draping a heavy blanket over the trapped man. And then there was the sound of a powerful motor starting up, followed by metal being ripped apart as the powerful jaws began to do their work.

Neal took a couple of steps away, leaning over to rest his hands on his knees and pull in a couple of deep breaths.

And that's when he saw it.

Elizabeth had dropped her keys, and they were lying on the pavement just under the front bumper of the van. He reached down and picked them up, rubbing his fingers over the fake rabbit's foot on the ring. The pale blue 'fur' was now spotted with rusty brown blood.

_Elizabeth had said that the fact it was fake was obviously lucky for the rabbit, so it was bound to be lucky for her too…_

Farther under the van, he saw the two pages she had been trying to retrieve when the crash occurred. One was a diagram of how the tables would be set up, and the other was a list of paper goods to be purchased for today's event.

_Two pieces of paper that meant nothing now…_

He pocketed the keys, rubbing that rabbit's foot again, hoping that it really was lucky. And then he looked around, finally locating the folder he had dropped when the collision occurred.

Through the din of crowd noise, and the metal tearing, and his general state of shock, he heard his name being called. Looking around, he located Yvonne standing behind the hastily erected police cordon.

_He hadn't even noticed when they had marked the area off with crime scene tape._

Neal walked over to the line, and Yvonne reached across the tape, hugging him. "What happened? How's Elizabeth?"

"She was pinned against the truck when the car hit the van," he explained. _So few words to describe such a huge event._ "I'm not sure how bad it was…" He caught himself, because he did know more than that. "Yvonne, she wasn't breathing, and she had no pulse when I got to her. They've taken her to the hospital already."

She sagged against him, and in his current state, he wasn't quite sure how he managed to keep both of them upright. They stood there for a long moment, just holding onto each other for strength. "What about Peter?" she finally asked.

"He's been conscious, but not really fully aware of what's going on. And his leg was trapped by the crash. That's what they're working on now."

"I just don't understand," Yvonne said. "It's a quiet street. How could an accident like this happen?"

Neal didn't answer for a moment. "It wasn't an accident. That car was aiming for the van, I'm sure of it."

"What? Why?"

Neal shook his head, turning back to watch as a large section of the van was peeled back. "I don't know – yet. But we'll find out."

* * *

Damon made his way quickly across the green expanse of the park, dodging slow-moving families, pushing aside those who got in his way.

His original plan had been to drop the armored town car in a hidden alley a few blocks away, and pick up the escape vehicle he'd stashed there two days ago. But even as he was driving away, the plan was changing in his mind.

He had to see the aftermath for himself.

He had parked the assault vehicle, as he liked to think of it, in the alley as planned. Not trusting the clean car in the city – after all, he had stolen it in the first place – he had arranged for one of Lyovkin's foot soldiers to stay with the vehicle. But with his new plan in mind, he had the other man drive, circling around a few blocks, back in the direction of the park. Once they had a little clearance from the town car, Lyovkin got out, sending the other man away with instructions to dump the car well away from the area. And then he had hurried back to the park on foot.

He slowed as he got closer, watching as the police officers strung crime scene tape from tree to tree, cordoning off an area around the crumpled van. All around there were cops and paramedics, ambulances and patrol cars, their lights flashing.

Damon stepped up behind a cluster of teenagers in school uniforms. With his height, it was hard for him to simply blend in. But the group of kids would give him some cover.

In any event, with all of the chaos his little stunt had created, it wasn't likely that anyone was looking for him right now anyway.

He watched dispassionately as the woman – Burke's wife – was loaded into an ambulance. He didn't even recall having seen her there before; then again, his attention had been focused on the FBI agent. _And he almost felt bad – just a little. Almost. She had been kind and helpful that day in her shop…_

The mysterious dark haired man was there too. He was covered in blood, but moving around, so he didn't appear to be hurt. Damon kind of wished he knew who the man was; then again, all that really mattered right now was Burke.

It appeared the agent was still in the vehicle. The mystery man and a medic had taken turns inside, and the fire department was now working on the other side of the van, using a tool that seemed to peel the metal of the vehicle back, like opening a sardine can.

The disappointing thing was that, given the way the medical personnel were anxiously hovering, it appeared that Burke might have survived. But that could still change.

He'd wait.


	7. Waiting

The side of the van was almost gone, and paramedics were standing by, anxiously waiting for their chance to get to Peter, to see how badly he was really injured.

Neal was itching to be over there with them. In fact, it was taking all of his self-control to stay on the curb and just watch. That little voice of logic was whispering in his ear, telling him that this was a job best left to the professionals.

But a louder voice was screaming that this was his friend, and he should be right there in the thick of things.

_Peter would be impressed that, for a change, Neal was resisting the impulsive route and going with restraint._

Jen was still standing nearby; he kind of thought she might have been tasked with making sure he stayed out of the way. She had also been the one to climb inside and check on Peter a couple of times during the process of getting him out. In fact, she had just stepped out of the van again.

"How is he?" Neal asked.

"He's still holding his own. And they almost have the last piece off. We'll be able to get him out soon."

"That's good. Could you… could you see his leg?"

"No, not really." She turned to look at him. "They're good friends of yours?"

Neal nodded. "The best." He paused, staring down at his hands. "There should have been something more, something else I could do."

"There wasn't. You did everything you could. You assessed the injuries, and started to give aid to the most critically wounded. You must have had some training at some point."

"A lifetime ago," he said softly. "I was a lifeguard."

"Well, you must have paid attention." He felt her hand on his arm, demanding his attention. "You were alone, with no advanced training or equipment. You did everything you could to give your friend a chance until we could get here."

Neal just nodded slowly, not really convinced. "Which hospital are they going to?" he finally asked.

"Mount Sinai Medical Center. They have an excellent trauma care department."

"Can I… Do you think I could ride with Peter when you get him out?"

"I'll tell you what. If you let me treat that cut on your head, I'll see what I can do."

He raised a hand to his forehead, confused. "Cut?"

"That's not all someone else's blood," Jen said gently, leading him to one side. She pointed to a spot on the curb.

He sat down as indicated. "I didn't even realize."

"I'm not surprised. You were worried about your friends." She opened an antiseptic wipe and dabbed gently at his temple, pausing as he winced. "Sorry. I just want to see how deep it is, and if it looks like there's debris in the cut."

"It must have been when I got in the van," Neal decided. "The window is broken. I just needed to see how Peter was, so I probably wasn't paying much attention."

Jen nodded, pulling out a second wipe to clean the cut. "Your adrenaline kicked in. It's perfectly understandable why you didn't feel it at the time." She leaned a little closer, her fingers touching the area. "It doesn't look very deep, and I don't feel anything inside there. I'm going to flush the area and bandage it. They'll check it further at the hospital."

Neal watched as she opened a bag labeled as saline solution. He took the gauze she handed him, holding it to shield his eyes as indicated, and then he sucked in a deep breath as the cold liquid dripped down his face. The sensation only lasted a few seconds, to be replaced by a gentle dabbing motion as she dried the area. Finally, he felt a dry bandage being placed on his skin, and tape holding it down.

"That's the only cut I see," Jen said. "Do you think you might be hurt anywhere else?"

"No, I don't…" Neal stopped his answer short as the fire crew shouted and yanked the final section of the van away.

He jumped to his feet, swaying just a moment as his equilibrium protested; maybe some of that blood really _had _been his. But nothing was going to keep him from watching as the paramedics swarmed toward the van.

There was a lot of talking, most of it medical terms that he might have recognized under normal circumstances, but which came out as jumbled noise now. He wanted to yell at them, tell them to get Peter out _NOW._ But some part of his rational brain was apparently still functioning, because he managed to refrain.

Finally – after minutes? hours? days? – there was movement, and he watched as they finally pulled Peter slowly from the crumpled vehicle. The medics were still working on the injured man, assessing his injuries, as Neal pulled out his cell phone. Hands trembling, he pulled up a speed dial number.

'_What is it Caffrey?'_

"Diana."

'_Come on, Caffrey, it's Saturday afternoon. This better be good.'_

"Diana…"

There must have been something in his voice, because there was a silent pause on the other end before Diana spoke again. _'Neal, what's wrong?'_

"There was a crash."

'_Are you hurt?'_

"No. Diana, it's Peter, and Elizabeth."

'_How bad?'_

"I'm not sure. They've already taken Elizabeth to the hospital. Peter… Peter was trapped. They just got him out."

'_All right, where are you?'_

"They're getting ready to put Peter in the ambulance. They'll be taking him to Mount Sinai."

He could hear activity in the background, like someone getting dressed. And when her voice came back on, it was tinny; probably on speaker, he guessed. _'It was a car accident?'_

"It wasn't an accident," he said, his voice now very calm and sure. "I saw it. It was deliberate."

Another pause. _'Is NYPD there?'_

"Yes. I already gave them a statement."

'_I assume you're going to the hospital?'_

"They said I could ride with Peter." He paused. "Diana, I think Mount Sinai is outside of my radius."

Her response was immediate, and her voice no longer tinny. He could hear a door being closed as she spoke. _'I'll call the Marshals as soon as we hang up, so don't worry about that. I'm going to call Jones, have him liaise with NYPD. If it was really deliberate, they'll be coming to us anyway.'_

"Yeah, might be related to a case."

'_Exactly.'_ There was the sound of Diana activating the remote for her car, and a car door opening. _'I'll meet you at the hospital, Neal.'_

"Thanks, Diana."

He disconnected the call and stared at the phone, wondering who else he should be calling. But just then he heard someone calling his name, and he looked around to see Jen waving him toward the ambulance.

He had to walk past the gurney to get there. The medics were still working on Peter, applying a field splint to his right leg. They already had an IV of some sort started.

"We're almost ready to transport your friend," Jen said as he reached her. She pointed inside the ambulance to a spot at the far end. "You'll need to sit up there, so we still have room to work."

"Thanks."

"The doctors are really good at Mount Sinai."

He nodded, finding that words were failing him again. _It would surprise a lot of people to hear that said about Neal Caffrey._

Of course, there was nothing normal about the current situation, so he really didn't think it mattered much that he was speechless now.

He climbed into the ambulance, taking the seat indicated. He was barely situated when Jen hopped in, helping to guide the gurney into its place. Another paramedic joined her; Neal recognized him as the man who had waited outside the van earlier, though he'd never gotten a name. The two of them locked the gurney into place as someone else closed the back doors.

Jen banged against the front wall, just to Neal's right. An unseen driver pulled the ambulance away from the park. The siren came on, and they were moving.

The two paramedics were still working on Peter, and Neal just leaned his head back against the wall, watching. They were cleaning cuts, checking blood pressure, attaching a monitor for his breathing. All of it was done with practiced precision. He'd almost admire the work…

If the reason for it wasn't so dire.

* * *

"All right, let's talk about Mr. Herman's case. You have the case notes in front of you. Based on his symptoms, who has a diagnosis?"

Before one of the medical students could answer, the group was interrupted by the intercom. _'Dr. Brooks, you're being paged to the ER, stat.'_

Christie moved to the wall unit and toggled the switch. "Thank you, on my way." She turned to the cardiology intern in the group. "Mark, you can lead the discussion. I'll expect a written summary from the group in my in-box."

Leaving her student group in the empty treatment room, Christie made her way out of the cardiology unit. The nearest set of elevators that would take her to the emergency room was between cardiac care and the intensive care unit.

She stabbed at the 'down' button, passing her ID badge over the sensor to override any other stops the car might be making. As soon as the doors opened, she stepped inside, again using her badge to force the car into a direct trip to the lower level.

It was one of the perks of becoming an attending physician at Mount Sinai. You could override things like the elevator controls – but you also got the 'privilege' of covering weekend shifts so that the more senior members of the unit could have the time off. Of course, people got sick and had heart attacks on weekends too, so someone had to be there. And she did enjoy working with the students, seeing how the sharp young minds attacked diagnosis and treatment problems.

But being the on-call senior member of the cardiology team also meant that she got called to any trauma cases that might involve cardiac care. And that just reinforced what her medical student rotation in the emergency room had already taught her.

Trauma care was just not where she wanted to be.

That didn't mean she wasn't good at it, or that she couldn't remain calm and provide proper urgent care when called upon to do so. And that was her mindset when she got off of the elevator.

One of the trauma nurses recognized her, and waved her toward a treatment area. It was one of the enclosed rooms, with the most advanced equipment – usually reserved for the most serious, urgent cases.

Someone was waiting just outside the door, helping her to slip into a treatment gown over her lab coat. She pulled on latex gloves, settled a mask over her face, accepted a set of protective goggles from the aide, and then stepped inside.

There was a woman on the treatment table, with several doctors and nurses already in attendance. One of the nurses was performing chest compressions on the patient. A couple of paramedics stood off to one side; they were probably still waiting for their gurney to be free.

Christie recognized Mike Adams, one of the attendings in the trauma center, and she walked toward him. "What do we have, Mike?"

"Female, age 37. Injured in a vehicle crash. Severe head trauma." He paused, gesturing toward his patient. "She's pregnant."

Christie nodded, scanning the monitors that showed vital signs; rather, in this case, _didn't_ show signs. "How long has she been down?" she asked, pulling out her stethoscope.

"About forty minutes," Adams replied. "But the paramedics say she received CPR almost immediately."

"Yeah, there was a bystander who started compressions within a minute or two."

Christie nodded at the paramedic in acknowledgement; she recognized him from other emergency cases, though she couldn't recall his name. She stepped up closer… and gasped. "Oh, no."

Adams had stepped up next to her. "You know her?"

Christie nodded. "Elizabeth Burke. My… ex-fiancée works for her husband." She only allowed the personal connection to slow her for a moment, placing the stethoscope against her patient's chest. "Stop compressions."

The nurse stepped back, and another handed him a towel to wipe the perspiration from his forehead.

Christie moved the diaphragm back and forth, controlling her reaction at finding no sign of heart activity. "No capture at all?"

Mike motioned for one of the nurses, who stepped forward with the notes. "Defibrillation was attempted six times in the field and the ambulance, and four times here. No reaction."

Christie turned back to Adams. "And the head injury?"

He shook his head slowly. "Serious. Dr. Dolan from Neurology is on the way, and she's been briefed." He lowered his voice before continuing. "She'll do the testing to tell us if there's even a chance. But she suggested putting the patient on a heart-lung bypass because of the baby. That's why we called you."

Christie motioned for the nurse to start compressions again, and then moved her stethoscope down to Elizabeth's belly. To her relief, the fetal heartbeat seemed strong. "All right, let's prepare to move her to the surgical floor. I'll call and get a team in there stat."

As Christie moved to the phone to make arrangements, the ER team sprang into action again. Wires and monitors were unhooked, portable units attached, IV bags were moved to hooks that were attached to the trauma bed that had been wheeled in.

With practiced efficiency, the team lifted Elizabeth, moving her to the hospital bed. The paramedics grabbed their gurney, wheeling it back out of the way as the ER staff began moving their patient toward the door.

Christie finished issuing her instructions, hung up the phone, and took just a moment for a deep breath. Cases like this were always tough, but when you knew the patient…

_She wondered if Diana knew…_

* * *

The ambulance trip was, quite possibly, the longest car ride of his life, Neal decided. Oh, certainly he'd traveled more miles in a car, and probably even longer periods of time.

_Though his concept of time today was still not really functioning…_

But never had a ride _seemed_ so long. And a lot of it was certainly due to the fact that there was so little he could do for Peter.

The agent had been semi-conscious for most of the time. At one point he'd been lucid enough to call out for Elizabeth, getting agitated when she didn't answer. Neal had leaned forward, grabbing the other man's hand, speaking to him. He obviously didn't have any answers, but the sound of his voice seemed to calm the older man somewhat.

He spent the rest of the _long_ ride with his hand caught in Peter's fierce grasp.

By the time the ambulance stopped and backed into the emergency bay, Neal had long since lost feeling in his hand. Not that he had complained, verbally or by trying to take his hand away.

Jen finally pried Peter's fingers loose as they prepared to move the gurney out. Neal followed right behind them as they rushed inside.

He _almost_ made it to the treatment area before a nurse – who looked and sounded like she'd make an excellent drill sergeant for the Marines – stopped him. Under the circumstances, he didn't have it in him to even try to con his way past her.

Instead, he followed her directions to a waiting area, taking a seat well away from the other people. Elbows on his knees, he rested his head in his hands…

And finally let the tears fall.

* * *

Diana turned into the parking area nearest the emergency room. She pulled into a spot labeled "No Parking – Emergency Vehicles Only' – with the flashing lights left running, and the FBI placard dropped on the dash, no one would question it.

She hurried inside, pulling her sunglasses off. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust and then she looked around. She was almost ready to pull up what they had – in better days - laughingly dubbed the 'Find Neal' app on her phone when she finally spotted him across the room.

Diana was a believer in the idea that body language could tell you a lot – and, frankly, what Neal's body language was saying scared the hell out of her. He looked, for lack of a better word, defeated. She'd really only seen that in him a couple of times before. Once, when she'd gotten to the airfield just after Kate's plane blew up. And again when his armor cracked after nearly shooting Fowler.

Now, he looked almost broken, his head down, staring at his hands.

She walked over, getting no reaction as she sat down. "Neal?"

He finally looked up, and the combination of blood and tear tracks on his face just reinforced the broken impression. "Diana."

"Have you heard anything?"

He shook his head. "No. They took Peter in a little bit ago, but no one has come out. Elizabeth was already here."

"Jones called right before I got here. He was on scene, talking with NYPD. It didn't sound like they knew much yet."

Neal stared down at his hands again. "It all happened so fast," he said quietly. "I couldn't get the license plate."

She laid a hand on his shoulder, trying not to focus on the blood covering the lower part of his sleeves. "Neal, no one's blaming you."

He just nodded, and she was sure he wasn't convinced.

"Can you tell me what happened?"

He took a deep breath, raising his eyes to stare at something - or nothing in particular – in the distance. "We were at the Art in the Park event," he started.

"That's the one Sophie Covington is involved with?"

"Yeah. And Elizabeth helped organize part of it too. Things were starting to wind down, so Peter and Elizabeth were leaving." He sucked in another deep breath, shaking his head. "They offered me a ride home, but I was supposed to help Sophie with something. I was just walking with them. They had Elizabeth's van."

"On the phone you said you thought the crash was deliberate."

"It was, I'm sure of it."

"Tell me about it."

"Elizabeth dropped the folder she was holding. Peter was already walking around to the other side of the van, so I bent down to help gather up the papers. When I stood up…" He paused, closing his eyes for a moment. "When I stood up again, I saw the car. It was coming right at the van, accelerating."

"No attempt to swerve or stop?"

Neal shook his head, opening his eyes again and turning to look at her. "Nothing. Diana, it came right for the van. I yelled at Peter to watch out. I think he saw the car at the last minute, because he tried to dive inside the van. And then…"

His voice trailed off, and she waited a moment to see if he'd continue. He didn't, so she prompted him. "And then?"

"There was this huge crash, and the sound of metal ripping. And there was broken glass flying out of the van. Diana, I ducked, and covered my eyes. If I hadn't…"

"Neal, that's normal."

"Maybe I could have gotten the license number."

"But maybe you would have been hurt too, and then there would be three patients." She pointed at the bandage on his temple. "How bad is that?"

"The paramedic said it wasn't that deep. It must have happened when I climbed in the van. I didn't even notice at the time."

Diana accepted that, at least for now. If it turned out he was lying, and he passed out on her, she'd kill him later. "Then what?"

"I yelled to some other people there to call for help, then I checked Peter. He was breathing, and he had a pulse. He was unconscious, and bleeding. It looked like he hit his head against the gear shift; there was blood on it. And his right leg was stuck where the side of the van was crushed. And then…"

"Neal, stay with me."

He turned to look at her again, raw fear in his eyes; she knew she'd never seen that before from him. "I checked on Elizabeth," he said, his voice so soft she had to lean closer to hear him. "The van had pushed her into the truck in front. She was pinned, and she'd hit her head. I couldn't find a pulse, and she wasn't breathing. I tried to do CPR, but it's been a really long time since I learned it. Maybe I didn't do it right. Maybe…"

She dropped her hand to his forearm, trying not to notice the dried blood under her fingers. "Neal, a lot of people would have panicked. You did everything you could."

He sighed and looked down at his feet, giving a single nod; she knew he wasn't convinced. "There were some paramedics on duty at the event, and they ran up when they heard the crash. They took over with Elizabeth. And they called for help. Another ambulance came, police. The fire department came. They had to use the Jaws of Life to cut the van open and get Peter out. Then we came here, and they took Peter back to the treatment area, and no one's told me anything."

Diana tightened her grip on Neal's arm, and she wasn't sure if it was more to try and comfort him, or to get some comfort for herself. "There are all sorts of privacy laws," she started. _She'd certainly heard enough about that from Christie…_

It wasn't an excuse she was willing to simply accept.

She got to her feet and went to the nearby water cooler, filled a paper cup, and brought it back. "Drink this," she ordered, putting it into Neal's hands. "I left my ID out in the car. I'm going to go get it, and I'll call Jones while I'm out there, see if he has any news. Then I'll flash my badge at these guys and see if we can get at least a few answers. All right?"

Neal had been staring at the cup, but he looked up now, nodding. "Thanks, Diana."

"I'll be right back."


	8. Vigil

Time ticked slowly by as they waited. Diana's badge, and her most official voice, had only gotten them the information that both Burkes were in surgery. They had moved from the waiting room in the bustling emergency department to the somewhat quieter lounge in the surgery area. In the late afternoon hours on a Saturday, only emergency were being handled by surgical teams.

Jones had called a couple of times. Traffic cameras had been able to track the town car far enough so that the patrols could narrow down the search area. And two officers on foot had found the car hidden in a narrow alley. They had confirmed that it was, in fact, armored, which explained how it had simply driven off after the impact.

They also confirmed that the license plate on the car belonged to a 2006 Hyundai Tucson registered in Albany, NY, and reported stolen two weeks earlier. They'd try to recover the Vehicle Identification Number, which had been filed down.

Given statements from several witnesses that the collision had seemed deliberate, NYPD had agreed to let the FBI's evidence recovery team take first crack at any forensics on the car. The locals insisted on retaining overall jurisdiction of the case, however, since the violations they knew of fell under local and state laws, not federal.

The car had been towed to the FBI's evidence warehouse, where technicians were scouring it for fingerprints, fibers, and any other trace evidence that might be found. The crumpled van was also being brought there, in case there was any probative evidence to be found; they were just waiting for a flatbed truck to pick up all of the pieces.

The traffic cameras had caught another vehicle leaving the other end of the alley shortly after the time of the crash. The angle from the first camera wasn't good enough to get a good look at the driver, or even a clear shot of the license plate. But they knew it was a silver four door sedan, probably a Chevy Malibu, which at least gave them something to go on. NYPD was scouring footage from other traffic cameras in and around the area to try and pick it up again.

Jones had picked up Elizabeth's purse, which had been found underneath the crumpled van. He'd bring it by the hospital later, so it would be there when she needed it…

* * *

It was six twenty eight in the evening when Christie signed out of the operating room. Her patient was securely tethered to the bypass machine, which was now pumping blood through her body. The ventilator was doing the same with oxygen.

She wished there had been more that she could do…

Tossing the surgical gown and cap into the used linen bin, she pushed through the swinging doors and walked out into the information area. She'd made this walk so many times, going to deliver news – sometimes good, sometimes bad - to the families of loved ones. This one was just different.

She was a cardiologist, and she could fix a lot of heart related problems. But in this case, it wasn't the heart that was the issue.

It was also a more difficult case because she knew the patient. She'd met Peter Burke and his wife at a few functions she had attended with Diana. And she had certainly heard a lot about them. The Burkes had found a way to make marriage work, even with two demanding careers.

She wished she and Diana had been so lucky.

Taking a deep breath for fortitude, Christie pushed open the door to the family lounge – and stopped short. Peter Burke wasn't there, but Diana was. And she recognized Neal Caffrey, though he hardly looked like the charming man who had cooked risotto for them. His head was bandaged, and his hands and clothing were covered in blood.

_This could be even worse than she knew…_

"Di?"

Diana got to her feet. "Christie."

Christie walked all the way into the room, letting the door swing closed behind her. "Is Peter here? I was hoping to update him on his wife."

Diana and Neal exchanged a worrisome glance before he finally answered. "Peter was injured in the same crash. They said he was in surgery too, but no one will tell us anything else."

_As much as she understood the good intent behind HIPAA and other privacy initiatives, the restrictions could be burdensome at times too. Like now… _ "I'm sorry. I'm really not allowed to say anything."

Diana had moved closer, almost close enough to touch. "Please," she said, her voice softer and more vulnerable than Christie was used to. "Anything."

Christie took a deep breath, looking over her shoulder toward the door. _Nope, no HIPAA inspector walking in._ "Dr. Dolan from Neurology is in with Elizabeth now."

Neal got to his feet too. "Neurology? So there's brain damage?"

The pain in his eyes was palpable, and Christie swallowed hard before deciding on an answer. "We really don't have all of the answers yet," she hedged. "Dr. Dolan needs time for her tests."

Neal sighed and turned away, running his hands through his hair. Diana took the opportunity to step closer. "He was there," she said quietly. "And first on scene trying to help. He's doing a little better now, but I think he might still be in shock."

Christie nodded. "I'll be right back."

It only took a couple of minutes to find what she needed – a clean scrub top from supply, a disposal bag, and an energy drink from the staff lounge. When she got back to the waiting room, Neal and Diana were still standing in the same spots she had left them in.

She walked over to Neal, holding out the shirt. "You should get out of those bloody clothes," she said. "You'll feel better. You can put the old clothes in this," she added, laying the bag down on a chair. She popped open the energy drink and set it on the nearby table.

"What about Peter?" he asked. "He had a broken leg. That's what the surgery was for."

"I'll make you a deal." She pointed at the can. "You drink that, and change. I'm going to get a suture kit and take a look at that cut on your head…"

"It's nothing," he objected.

"But it's part of my deal," she insisted. "You're going to change, and let me check that cut, at least clean and re-bandage it. While I'm getting the kit, I'll see what I can find out about Peter's status. I may not be able to tell you much, but I'll give you what information I can. Deal?"

Neal was already shrugging out of his jacket. "Deal," he agreed, as he pulled the bloody shirt over his head and then reached for the scrub top.

"Good." Christie started toward the door, stopping for a moment next to Diana. "Make sure he finishes the energy drink," she said. "It'll help. And I'll be back."

* * *

Neal stood at the window, staring out at the city lights beyond. If anyone had asked, he couldn't have told them what he was looking at; the specifics weren't important. The lights were simply calming, and tonight of all nights he needed some calm.

In some ways, it reminded him of another vigil. Standing at a window, listening to the sound of the machines to reassure himself that there was still life. Except that time it had been Mozzie in the hospital bed, fighting for life after Julian Larrsen's bullet struck him down.

This time the vigil was for Peter. Christie had come through, without violating her HIPAA duties…

Much.

She had found out that Peter was out of surgery, and in recovery. And she managed to get the room number he was going to be moved to as soon as the post-surgical monitoring was done.

Technically, the ICU visiting hours were over, and _technically_ only family members were allowed unless specifically authorized by the patient. But between Christie's influence as a senior staff member, and Diana's judicious use of her badge, Neal had been given permission to stay.

_He kind of liked the bit about an attempt on the agent's life, and the need for 'FBI personnel' to keep watch._

Diana had stayed long enough to see for herself that Peter was alive, even if still under the influence of the anesthesia. Then she left to join Jones with the evidence team, leaving Neal strict instructions to call when Peter woke up.

_And he would – that's what family did._

Nurses stopped in now and then, checking the readouts on the monitors and making notes in the electronic chart. From their expressions and demeanor, he got the feeling that they were satisfied with the progress toward consciousness, though they wouldn't actually _tell_ him anything.

But a little careful flirting, combined with a few leading questions, got results, however small. And a bit of distraction got him the login information for the laptop in the room.

A quick call to Mozzie and together they deciphered all of the medical jargon.

Actually, the call hadn't been all that quick. Neal had had to explain why he hadn't been home when expected, or answering his phone. When Mozzie had finally calmed down – a little – Neal had extracted a reluctant promise from the other man to _not_ show up at the hospital on a rescue mission, at least until they knew more about Elizabeth's condition.

He still more than half expected to see a vertically and follicle-y challenged 'doctor' with poor eyesight show up at any moment.

He still had no real information on Elizabeth's condition. Christie had been unwilling to say anything beyond that Dr. Dolan would talk to Peter when he was awake. And the patient records were stored under ID numbers, not names. Given time, Neal knew he could probably figure out the code. But in ICU, the nursing checks were frequent, and he didn't want to give away the secret that he could access their system at all. So he was limited to quick bits of access here and there.

Fortunately, Peter's ID number was on the hospital bracelet he wore. His right leg had been broken in the crash, and there was muscle and ligament damage from being stuck in the crushed vehicle. But the orthopedic surgeon's notes indicated that he was highly satisfied with the reconstructive work. Peter would be in a heavy cast for a while and then re-evaluated. It would be a long road back, full of physical therapy.

The more immediate concern, and the main reason for the ICU room, was the major concussion. Peter had been monitored carefully during surgery for any sign of brain swelling. In fact, there had apparently been significant discussion about the advisability of using anesthesia, according to the notes. But the severity of the injury to his leg, and the long term consequences of delaying surgery, had also been of concern. In the end, they had done the surgery, and there had been no sign of the feared swelling. Still, it would be at least twenty four hours before the doctors would consider him past the high risk period.

Peter had been restless for the last twenty minutes or so, and Neal hoped that meant the man was starting to come out from under the anesthesia. He really, almost desperately, needed to talk to his friend.

A low moan from the bed got his attention, and Neal quickly dropped into the chair next to the main monitors. He reached for Peter's hand, squeezing tight. "Peter? Peter, it's Neal. Can you hear me?"

He was rewarded with another moan, and then Peter's eyelids began to flutter. "That's it, Peter. Please wake up."

It wasn't immediate, but Peter's eyes slowly opened, though his gaze still appeared somewhat unfocused. Neal did his best to tamp down his own needs, instead just holding Peter's hand, making sure the other man knew he wasn't alone.

Finally, the brown eyes seemed to clear a bit, and Peter's head turned his way. "Neal?"

Neal breathed a sigh of relief, wrapping Peter's hand in both of his. "Yeah, it's me. Welcome back."

Peter's eyes moved around, taking in his surroundings. "Hospital?"

"Yes, you're at Mount Sinai. Do you remember what happened?"

Peter was quiet for a long moment, seemingly thinking. "The park," he finally said. "Car crash."

"Yeah, there was a crash."

"Hard to remember."

"You hit your head, Peter. They're monitoring you for a concussion."

Peter nodded, as if that explained all the mysteries in the world. Then he licked his lips and looked around again. "Water?"

Neal freed one of his hands and stood up, reaching across to push the call button. "I'll get the nurse, and we'll find out if you can have something to drink yet, all right?"

Peter's response was another nod, and a tightening of his own grip on Neal's hand.

The door opened and a nurse walked in, the older brunette who had been in the last couple of times to check Peter's condition. She'd also brought Neal a cup of coffee on one of those trips, which had earned her his eternal gratitude. Her nametag identified her as Lois.

She smiled as Peter turned his head toward her. "Hello, Mr. Burke. It's good to see you awake."

Neal watched as she efficiently went about verifying the current readings on all of the monitors. "Peter was wondering if he can have some water."

"Dr. Rosen wants to see you first, check your responses. We have to be careful with head injuries. But I'll send in a small cup of ice chips while we're waiting."

Peter nodded, seeming to be doing a better job of following what was happening. "Thank you." He looked around again, and was clearly trying to put some more pieces together. "El. Where's El?"

Neal and Lois exchanged a glance, not sure who would be expected to answer that question. Neal knew he didn't really even _have_ an answer, and unless Elizabeth was here in ICU, Lois might not have much information either.

The anesthesia was obviously wearing off, and Peter didn't miss the silent communication. "What is it? Where's El?" He paused, taking a deep breath and then looking at Neal. "She was at the park. I remember. Where is she, Neal?"

"Peter…"

The answer wasn't coming fast enough for the injured agent. He was making an awkward attempt to remove some of the wires attached to his body, and then he tried to sit up. "El!"

Neal and Lois moved at virtually the same time, one on each side.

"Mr. Burke, please, you need to calm down," Lois pleaded.

Peter ignored her, turning his eyes to Neal. "Neal, where's Elizabeth. Was she hurt? What happened?" he fell back against the pillow with an exhausted sigh. "I can't remember."

"Mr. Burke, your wife is here in the hospital," Lois confirmed. "She's receiving treatment."

Peter started struggling against them again. "Where? I need to see her. Neal, please. At least tell me how badly she was hurt."

"Peter, I really don't know," Neal replied, grabbing the older man's hand so he couldn't keep trying to pull out his IV. "They won't tell me anything. I'm not family."

Lois tried again. "Mr. Burke, please, try to relax. Getting yourself worked up won't help your condition, and it won't help your wife."

Peter did lean back against the pillows again, though Neal wasn't sure if it was in response to what Lois had said, or if he had just exhausted whatever physical reserves he had left.

"Peter, let's get your doctor in here, like Lois said. Then maybe you can get some answers."

Lois nodded in agreement. "If you agree to try and stay calm, I'll go page Dr. Rosen. We have to consider your health, Mr. Burke."

Peter nodded wearily. "Ice chips?" he asked.

"I'll be right back."

Neal watched as the nurse disappeared out into the hallway, and he found himself uncharacteristically nervous being alone with Peter. And sure enough, when he looked down, Peter was staring at him with the all-knowing look that Neal so disliked.

"Neal…"

"I really don't know, Peter," he said quietly, dropping back onto the chair. "She was hurt. They brought her here to the hospital, before they even got you out of the van. But, privacy laws and all, they won't tell me anything."

"They have to tell me."

"Yeah, they do. But Lois is right, you have to be careful about your own health too. If you get too worked up, Dr. Rosen won't tell you anything." Neal paused, trying for a smile. "So don't do the impulsive thing, kind of like you always tell me."

Peter nodded against the pillow, letting his eyes close for a moment. "That does sound familiar."

Neal shrugged. "A pretty smart guy has tried to pound the lesson into my head."

"Real smart guy."

Under other circumstances, Neal would have enjoyed continuing the parrying. But right now, he didn't have the heart. "Listen, while we're waiting, I'm going to step out and call Diana, all right? She made me promise to let her know when you woke up, and I'm kind of scared to cross her."

Peter nodded. "Smart man."

"Yeah, I have my moments. I'll be right back."


	9. Bad and Good

By ten o'clock on a Saturday night, the hospital had taken on a quieter, more sedate pace. The lighting was lowered, staffing was cut to a minimum, cleaning crews could start their work, and most visitors had been gently ushered out.

The Intensive Care Unit, however, remained fully staffed. The highly trained personnel went about their work efficiently night and day.

Rita Dolan pushed the door open, stepping into the ICU. She had been anticipating the call that had come to her office a few minutes earlier. This was not a conversation she was looking forward to, but she understood the need of the family to know.

She stopped at the nursing station, verifying the correct room number; no sense scaring someone unnecessarily.

She paused again just outside the door, taking a deep breath. Even after a quarter of a century, this never really got any easier.

The door opened just then, and one of the nurses she recognized stepped out. "Dr. Dolan."

"Hello, Lois. Dr. Rosen called and said Mr. Burke was awake."

Lois nodded. "He is, and he's very anxious for word about his wife."

"I'm sure he is. Has Dr. Rosen prescribed anything?"

"He left orders for a sedative. I have it ready on the counter."

"That's fine. We'll see how this goes."

Lois hesitated. "It's… it's not good news, is it."

Dolan answered with the barest shake of her head and walked into the room.

She knew from the accident report that the patient in the bed was Peter Burke, age forty seven, FBI agent. He'd been admitted for treatment of a broken leg, evidenced now by the appendage in a cast and elevated. There had also been mention of a head injury, and, indeed, there were sutures proving that. The report had also indicated a concussion, but Larry Rosen would have done an evaluation to ensure that Burke was cognizant of his surroundings and circumstances before calling her to deliver this news.

There was another man in the room, younger, dark hair. He was sporting a bandage across his right temple, and wearing a surgical scrub shirt. If he'd been approved to stay this late, he must be a family member, or at least a close friend.

"Mr. Burke, my name is Rita Dolan. I'm the co-chair of the Neurology department here at Mount Sinai."

"Neurology? You were treating my wife?"

"I was called in to consult on her case, yes."

The younger man stood up. "Should I step out?"

Burke shook his head, looking between the two of them. "It's all right if he stays, isn't it?"

"Of course. Privacy laws prohibit me from volunteering any information to anyone other than you, Mr. Burke. But you can authorize me to speak with anyone you choose."

"I'd like Neal to stay then."

"That's fine." She stepped closer to the bed, extending her hand. "Dr. Dolan. And you are?"

"Neal Caffrey. I work with Peter."

"I saw your name in the report from the paramedics. You were the first on scene."

"Yes, I was."

Rita pulled another chair over toward the bed and sat down, turning back to the patient. "Mr. Burke, just to be clear. You are authorizing me to discuss your wife's case, and any information that may come up about your own care, with Mr. Caffrey?"

Burke nodded. "Yes, it's fine. Please, how is my wife? Can I see her?"

Medicine had been a rewarding career, but certain parts of it – like delivering this type of news – really and truly sucked. "Mr. Burke, I am so sorry to have to tell you this, and there is truly no good way to deliver the news."

The hitch in his breathing, and the look of absolute horror on his face, told her that he had now guessed what the news would be.

"Your wife sustained a severe head trauma in the crash. We've performed a full electroencephalogram, or EEG, as well as several other tests. Mr. Burke, your wife has no brain activity."

"No… what does that mean?"

"She has no reaction to any type of stimulus. And the EEG… well, in twenty five years, the results were about as flat a line as I've seen. There's no cortical or cerebellar activity. There isn't even any brain stem activity, which would trigger autonomic responses such as breathing."

Burke's reaction was a sob, and he closed his eyes; she could see his white-knuckled grip on Caffrey's hand. And it was the younger man who finally spoke. "Are you… are you saying Elizabeth is brain dead?"

Dolan nodded slowly. "Yes. I could give you big, fancy medical terminology, but that is essentially the case."

It was Caffrey's turn to choke back a sob. "I tried," he whispered. "There must have been more I could do…"

"No." She cut him off quickly. "Mr. Caffrey, there was nothing else that you, or anyone else could have done. The head trauma was too severe. Death was most likely instantaneous with the impact." She paused, letting the words sink in for a moment, before turning her attention back to the patient. "I am very sorry, Mr. Burke. But, in the midst of all of this, there is some potential good news."

It took a moment before he finally opened his eyes again and looked up. "Good news?"

"It appears your wife is about four to five months pregnant, is that correct?"

"Yes."

"The fetal heartbeat is strong, and throughout the treatment and testing we've noticed quite a bit of movement. There's no absolutely definitive way to test for brain damage in the womb, but the activity level is a very good sign. And based on the report from the scene, Mr. Caffrey started CPR within just a few minutes of the injury, and paramedics were on scene shortly after that."

"So the baby might make it?" Burke all but whispered.

"We are cautiously optimistic, yes. The emergency room staff put your wife on a ventilator, which is simulating breathing. And we called in a cardiologist who hooked your wife up to a heart-lung bypass machine, which is forcing blood through her body. Delivering the baby now would not be optimal – it's too soon, and the survival odds would be very low. Even if the baby survived, the odds of severe birth defects would be extremely high. But, if you choose, the machines can keep your wife's body functioning for some time. Even another four to six weeks would make a big difference in the odds."

Burke was staring at the ceiling, trembling. It was Caffrey who, again, stepped in to ask the question. "Does he have to decide right now?"

"No, absolutely not. Dr. Khalil, the head of Obstetrics, is coming in tomorrow morning. He'll run a complete ultrasound, and some other tests. After that we'll have a better picture of the current fetal development."

"It's a girl," Burke whispered. "Our daughter."

"Then we will do our best to give your daughter a fighting chance," she assured him. "Once Dr. Khalil has completed his tests, we'll talk to you again, explain what's going on and what the timeframe would be. And what your options are."

"Can I see her? I need to see my wife."

He really didn't look to be in any shape to go for a visit, and yet there was a determination in his voice that gave her pause. "Let me check your chart," she replied. "I want to see the results of Dr. Rosen's evaluation a little while ago. We don't want to do anything to jeopardize your health, and you did suffer a head injury yourself."

"Please."

The pain in that one word was palpable. "I'll check the notes," she promised. "Are there any other questions I can answer for you now?"

He shook his head, still maintaining the death grip on his friend's hand. "No. I just need to see her."

Dolan got up, sliding the chair back out of the way. "I'm going to go look at the chart right now. I'll be back shortly."

* * *

The hospital hadn't looked this large from the outside, but the corridors they were traversing seemed to go on forever.

Dolan had approved Peter's request to see Elizabeth. It had taken a little while to get a wheelchair that could accommodate the need to keep his leg immobilized and elevated, and then it took two nurses and Neal to get the injured man moved.

Now they were heading to a room in long-term care. Dolan had come with them, silently guiding Neal as he pushed the wheelchair. Peter was slumped down, as far as anyone could be slumped with the heavy, large cast on his leg.

The silence was good, Neal guessed. He certainly didn't have any words to offer Peter. And nothing Dolan could say would make this any easier for his friend.

The long term care ward was eerily quiet. From the partially open doors came the glow of medical monitors, and there were a few soft beeps here and there. Two nurses were behind the main desk as they entered, each of them somberly nodding at the trio.

_Dolan must have called ahead to let them know visitors were coming…_

One of the nurses walked ahead of them, pushing open a door near the end of the hall. By the time Neal pushed the wheelchair in, she was moving the last piece of equipment away so that they could get close to the bed.

Elizabeth looked like… Elizabeth, if she was sleeping. Except for the huge bandage covering the entire left side of her head.

And the fact that there wasn't so much as a muscle twitch to be seen.

The nurse had cleared the side to Elizabeth's right, where she still looked like the wife and friend they had been enjoying a day in the park with just hours earlier. He pushed Peter up as close as he could get, and then stepped back, leaning heavily against the counter.

_He'd though that losing Kate the way he had – one moment she was there, in the plane window, and the next, gone in a ball of fire – had been bad. But this… this might be worse._

He could only watch as Peter reached out, taking his wife's hand in his. And, against all common sense, against everything they had been told about Elizabeth's condition, he still found himself hoping for a miracle.

But there was no reaction at all, not even the slightest flicker that would indicate awareness.

Dolan had stepped up at the end of the bed. "This ventilator is keeping oxygen supplied to your wife's body, and thus to the fetus. And the bypass machine," she continued, pointing at another piece of equipment, "will continue to circulate blood in place of the heart. The electrodes on her abdomen are monitoring the fetal heartbeat, which you can see on the wall display."

Peter nodded slowly, Elizabeth's hand held tightly between his own. "But you're sure… I mean, there's nothing… If we need another opinion?"

"Mr. Burke, you are certainly welcome to request an outside consultation. We'll provide access to all of the test results, and make sure that your physician has any resources needed to conduct his or her own testing." She paused, moving to put her hand on his shoulder. "But I've been doing this for twenty five years. When even the brain stem functions are gone, there simply isn't anything we can do."

Peter's sob wrenched Neal's heart, and he stepped up next to his friend, his hand on Peter's other shoulder. "Peter, what can I do?"

The words, when they came, were whispered, and broken. "I'd like a little time alone with Elizabeth."

Neal looked over at Dolan, who nodded. "Of course. But remember that we agreed only a short visit tonight. If your condition stays stable over the next few days, you'll be able to come back later in the week."

Peter nodded, and Neal gave his shoulder a quick squeeze. "I'll be right outside. If you need me, just call."

Neal headed for the door, and Dolan followed him out into the hall, closing the door behind her. He took a few steps down the hall, and then turned to her. "I checked Peter first at the scene. If I had gone to Elizabeth…"

She stopped him quickly, a hand to his arm and shaking her head. "It wouldn't have made any difference. None at all. The head trauma was too severe. Even if an injury like that had happened right outside of the operating room here, with my surgical team standing by, there wouldn't have been anything we could do."

He just nodded, staring down at his feet.

Dolan put pressure on his arm, turning him until he looked up. "I know it's hard to accept right now. But here's something I'd like you to think about and remember. By starting CPR as quickly as you did, that fetus has a chance to develop, assuming Mr. Burke elects to continue the palliative care. That's a good thing."

He sighed, giving a small shrug. "Yeah."

"When I started in medicine, I was going to be the one who figured out how to save them all. But it just doesn't work that way."

"A lot of things don't work out the way we planned them."

"No, they don't," she agreed. "Now, I'll be back in about ten minutes, and then we need to take your friend back to his room. He suffered a rather sever physical trauma himself, and the emotional toll this must be taking won't help."

"He has a lot of friends. What can we do?"

"For starters, you can go home after Mr. Burke is back in his room." She cut off his attempted protest before the words could even leave his mouth. "We're going to sedate him, and monitor him closely for the rest of the night. There's nothing you can do here. But he is going to need all of the support he can get from family and friends in the days to come, so you need to make sure you take care of yourself too."

"I just… he shouldn't be alone."

"He'll be asleep, with close monitoring for his concussion. You'll do better for him by coming back in the morning."

"I guess… I should probably go take care of their dog."

"That sounds like a good plan. Now, I'll be back in a few minutes."

Neal watched as the doctor walked back toward the nursing station. Actually, he figured the best plan might be to find out if any of Mozzie's alien conspiracy friends had found a working time machine yet, so they could go back to the park, in the bright afternoon sun, and he wouldn't let Elizabeth drop that folder, and he'd see the black car earlier…

* * *

_This was the hand that had brushed a stubborn lock of hair flat… god, was it just this morning? She had laughed, and used a napkin when syrup from their breakfast pancakes dribbled on his chin. She'd used those hands to tear a couple of extra pancakes into bite size pieces for Satchmo, in spite of his protests that the dog was perfectly capable of handling the full cake. He'd watched her at the park, her long, beautiful fingers coaxing some stubborn flowers into place on the centerpieces…_

Those fingers now felt cold in his hand. _Lifeless…_

Peter choked back a sob as that word came to his mind. But, it seemed all too accurate. Despite the dire words from Dr. Dolan, he'd tried to hold out hope. Maybe when he saw her, touched her, spoke her name – maybe she would respond. Those eyelids would open, her sparkling blue eyes would look at him again.

There was nothing.

Nothing but the sound of the machines that were creating a sickening parody of life in her body. Her chest rose and fell in time with the ventilator, but the little nostril flare that he found so cute when she was sleeping was absent.

_Elizabeth_ was absent.

Just how did anyone expect him to go on without her in his life? How could he possibly…

A flicker on the display monitor on the wall behind the bed caught his eye, and he traced the wires back to the sensors taped to her belly. A jagged line on the monitor was going up and down rapidly, the readout showing one hundred fifty.

_That was their daughter's heartbeat, the child he and El had tried for for so long, had almost given up on ever having._

In the midst of sorrow, new life. And even as her own life had been taken, El's body had somehow protected their child.

It was awkward, sitting in the wheelchair and with his cast-encased leg elevated, but he managed to lean over the bed, laying his head on her abdomen. The life he felt there was likely all he had left to hang onto.

He was only vaguely aware when Neal and Dolan came back into the room. He held onto El's fingers as long as he could, until the wheelchair was turned toward the door and her hand slipped away.

Peter was peripherally aware of the work that it took to get him levered back into his hospital bed, but he couldn't find it in him to even try and help. He didn't argue at all when the nurse explained the sedative she was injecting into his IV.

He heard Neal saying that he was leaving for the night, that he would check on Satchmo, and be back in the morning. But replying was beyond his abilities.

He could feel the drugs taking effect, the haze of oblivion tugging at his consciousness.

And then there was nothing but black emptiness.

* * *

Neal let himself into the quiet Brooklyn townhouse, quickly punching in the code to silence the alarm that had started beeping. He wasn't sure if Peter actually knew that _he_ knew the code. And he probably hadn't mentioned the keys he'd picked up in the park.

Not that anything as silly as that mattered now.

Satchmo came trotting toward him, tail wagging, and he crouched down to greet the dog, burying his face against the golden fur.

"I envy you right now, Satch," he whispered. "You don't understand how your life has already changed."

Satchmo responded by licking his face, and Neal allowed himself a small smile. When life got turned upside down on you, having small things stay the same could mean a lot.

He got to his feet, heading toward the kitchen. Satchmo followed, but now with his head down, tail between his legs, and a soft whine coming from his throat. The reason was soon obvious when Neal found a puddle on the floor.

_Well, no wonder, when his humans should have been home hours ago…_

Trying not to think, for the moment, about the human who wouldn't be coming back again, period, Neal grabbed some paper towels, wet them in the sink, and cleaned up the mess. Then he opened the cupboard and retrieved some of the special treats he knew the dog loved. "It wasn't your fault, Satch," he said, offering a good ear scratch as he handed over the goodies.

Satchmo gobbled his treats, and then eagerly followed Neal to the back door. Neal let the dog out, watching as he became just a ghostly shadow in the darkness.

And then he looked down at his hand realizing he still was holding Elizabeth's keys. The damned blue rabbit's foot, and the luck it supposedly represented, seemed to be mocking him.

Neal yanked on the slim chain holding the talisman on, and it snapped. Stepping out onto the deck, he heaved the little trinket as far as he could.

He heard Satchmo give a soft _woof_, and the dog ran toward the back fence. Neal sincerely hoped the dog wasn't going to try and play fetch with it.

But a moment later, he heard the unmistakable sound of scratching in the dirt which meant that Satchmo was digging. And he hoped the dog was burying the rabbit's foot deep.

_Good riddance._

* * *

_Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz…_

The sound was intrusive, finally rousing Neal enough to groan and force his eyes open. It took a moment to realize where he was.

_Right, he'd sat with Satchmo until the wee hours of the morning, when he'd finally collapsed on the Burkes' couch…_

And the buzzing sound was his cell phone, which he'd set on the coffee table.

He groped for the phone, pressing the button to answer the call by feel. "Yes."

'_Caffrey?'_

The voice brought him fully awake with a start, and he sat up. "Agent Hughes, sir."

'_Agent Berrigan said you were with Peter at the hospital, but she hadn't heard from you since last night.'_

"Yes, sir. It was pretty late when I left."

'_What can you tell me?'_

"Peter had surgery on his right leg. It's broken, and there was muscle damage. He also had a concussion, but he was awake last night."

'_And Elizabeth?'_

Neal took a moment to try and convince himself that that part of the day had all been a horrible nightmare, and that he'd soon wake up…

'_Caffrey?'_

"Sir, Elizabeth… she has no brain activity."

'_My god.'_

"They said she was gone at the scene. They're keeping her body on machines, hoping to be able to save the baby. They're running some more tests today."

'_You'll be going back to the hospital?'_

"Yes, sir." _Well, maybe…_ "Sir, Diana called the Marshals for me yesterday."

'_Yes, she mentioned that. We've extended your radius to four miles for the foreseeable future.'_

"Thank you. Sir, is there any news about the investigation into the crash?"

'_We're expecting more traffic video this morning. Jones and Berrigan are planning to work on it again with the crime scene team. I'll be joining them in a bit.'_

"Is there anything I can do?"

'_Do you have anything else to add to your witness statement?'_

"No, sir. I just know it was intentional."

'_Well, we'll let you know if we find anything. And I want you to call me direct if there are any changes at the hospital.'_

"Yes, sir."

'_Tell Peter I'll stop by later today.'_

"I'll do that."

The call disconnected, and Neal just stared at his phone for a long moment. A little icon at the top finally got his attention – the battery was running low. He should remember to pick up his charger when he stopped at home to change.

Come to think of it, he should find Peter's charger too. He'd seen the other man's cell among the possessions brought to the ICU room, so hopefully it hadn't been damaged.

And when he was up to it, Peter was going to have some tremendously difficult phone calls to make.

Satchmo had come up, nudging at his hand, and Neal took a moment to scratch the lab's ears. "Come on, boy. Let's get you outside. Then I'll make sure you get some good food for breakfast."

Satchmo bounded outside when Neal opened the door. He watched for a moment as the dog ran, carefree, around the small yard, sniffing, ever hopeful that there might be a new smell or object to check out.

He thought it would be a good time to be a dog, worried only about patrolling the yard, and having food in his dish. A human hand for ear scratches and belly rubs, and a warm place to sleep, and life would be complete.

Leaving Satch to his morning explorations, Neal climbed the stairs to the bathroom. He used the toilet, washed his hands, and used his wet fingers to run through his hair, getting rid of the worst of the unruly locks that were sticking up after a hard day and a restless night on the couch. He could grab a quick shower when he stopped home to change.

He carefully removed the bandage Christie had applied to his temple, using some warm water to clear away a little dried blood. Fortunately, there was no fresh blood, and with a little judicious rearranging of his hair, the cut was mostly covered.

He stopped at the door of the master bedroom next, almost unwilling to go in. It all looked just too… normal. Peter's ratty slippers, that Neal had given him a hard time about on several occasions, were sitting just at the edge of the bed. A faded t-shirt advertising LeMoyne College was tossed over a chair, and Elizabeth's robe – the lightweight silky one, with the floral print – was set out neatly at the end of the bed. And on the bedside table, a photo of Peter and Elizabeth, laughing; he'd snapped it with his phone at the three year anniversary dinner at Skovorodka …

Trying his best not to look around anymore than he had to, Neal crossed the room to the bedside table on Peter's side. He unplugged the cell phone charger and then hurried back out of the room and downstairs.

Satchmo was waiting at the back door, and Neal welcomed the distraction, playing with the dog for a few minutes. Then he opened the refrigerator, pulling out a partial package of breakfast sausage. It wasn't hard to find the cooking utensils he needed. He'd helped Elizabeth…

He had to stop, the frying pan dangling from his fingers. He _really_ couldn't think about that.

Satchmo waited patiently while he heated up the sausages. When they were done, he cut them into pieces, and let them cool a little while he cleaned and refilled the dog's water dish. Then he added some treats to the food dish before setting it down.

_It wasn't likely that Satch was going to get an overabundance of attention in the near future._

For himself, Neal didn't think he'd be able to stomach any food. Even the thought of making coffee didn't appeal to him. Still, he probably needed _something_ to start the day. He found some orange juice in the refrigerator, poured a glass, and somehow managed to force it down.

Finally, with Satchmo as settled as he could be for the day, Neal called for a cab. It was barely dawn, the sun just coming up, and still a bit chilly. He pulled on one of Peter's sweatshirts over the scrub top he was still wearing from yesterday.

By the time he had pulled his shoes on, stuffed the charger in the sweatshirt's kangaroo pocket, and given Satchmo one more good ear scratch, there was a honk from out on the street, signaling the arrival of the cab. He set the alarm, locked the door, and headed for a brief stop at home.


	10. Reality

Getting to the hospital wound up taking a little longer than Neal had planned. It was Sunday morning, so traffic wasn't the issue. But he had barely made it into the house before June was there; from her worried look, he was pretty sure Mozzie had been there, and shared the news with her.

The warm, silent hug she engulfed him with was another clue.

His suspicion was confirmed when Mozzie appeared from the kitchen, three mugs of steaming coffee in his hands.

Despite his initial determination to get in and out of the house as quickly as possible, Neal found himself led to the dining room table, where he filled his friends in on the details he knew. They cried together, drank coffee together, hugged.

In the end, June took the keys, and the alarm code, and promised to go get Satchmo. He would be a guest on Riverside Drive until Peter was home and able to care for him. Mozzie left with a promise to check every street source he could locate in the vicinity of the park and where the town car was abandoned. He also had a lead on finding Bucky, which had been his previous assignment.

Showered and changed, Neal felt a bit more like himself. June met him at the door with a bag filled with sandwiches and a thermos of coffee. She also handed him the keys to the Jag, telling him he needed to be mobile. She'd make arrangements for another car for herself.

It was just before nine o'clock when he parked in the hospital lot, a few minutes after when he approached the desk in the ICU. Technically, visiting hours there didn't start for another hour, but when he checked with the nurse – fully ready to lie, con, or bribe his way in - she smiled and said that Dr. Brooks had cleared visitors for Peter's room outside of normal hours.

Neal stopped in the doorway, looking inside. Nothing much seemed to have changed from late the night before. The monitors still beeped softly, registering breathing, heart rate, blood pressure. Peter's right leg was elevated, the heavy cast protruding out from under the blanket. The agent appeared to be sleeping, or at least he had his eyes closed. But beyond that…

Beyond that, Peter looked somehow smaller, broken. There was a sadness to his features that was heart-wrenching, and a little frightening. Peter had always seemed so strong, always there for others. To see him like this was more than a little disconcerting.

Of course, the world as Peter had known it – as Neal had known it – had ended the day before.

He walked in, setting the bag from June down on the counter just inside the door. Then he approached the bed and sat down, reaching for his friend's hand. "Peter?"

At first there was no reaction, but then Peter's eyes slowly opened and he turned his head. "Neal."

"Yeah. Told you I'd be back. How are you?"

Peter raised his other hand, pointing shakily at the IV drip. "Not in too much pain, thanks to that," he said. Then his hand tightened around Neal's. "Tell me… tell me what I saw last night wasn't real."

Neal wrapped both of his hands around Peter's holding tight. "I wish I could, Peter. I truly wish I could. But it would be a lie."

"And you don't lie to me," Peter whispered, his voice cracking.

"No, I don't, Peter. I would do anything to make yesterday not have happened, but I won't lie to you."

"Appreciate that," Peter replied, closing his eyes again. "I don't think I could handle any lies."

"No lies from me," Neal promised.

They sat like that in silence, long enough that Neal thought Peter was asleep again. But then the older man spoke. "El's not coming back."

"No, Peter, she's not."

"But the baby…"

"She still has a chance, Peter."

The older man breathed a sigh of relief. "I was hoping at least that part was real."

"The obstetrician, Khalil, was supposed to do some tests this morning."

Peter nodded, opening his eyes again. "I asked them to let me know when they were going to start. I don't think they'll let me go, but maybe you could be there."

"Yeah, if they'll let me." _Even if the last thing he wanted to do was spend more time in that room…_

"Dr. Dolan left a release of information form with the nurses. I signed it this morning, and put your name on it. Neal, I know I'm asking a lot."

"Peter, whatever you need."

"I just… I need someone else to know what's going on. I may not be thinking real clearly."

"How's your head doing?"

"Hurts," Peter admitted. "But not as much as inside here," he added, tapping his chest.

Given the pain and emptiness Neal was feeling, he could only begin to guess how much deeper the hurt went for Peter. "What can I do for _you_, Peter?"

Peter turned his head to look straight at him, a desperate plea in his eyes. "Tell me what happened. I can… I can only remember a few bits."

"What's the last thing you remember?"

"We were at the park. El and I were leaving, I think?"

"You were. I was walking back to the van with you."

"And then…" Peter paused, shaking his head. "Then it's mostly a blank."

"Are you sure you're up for this, Peter?"

"Neal, I have to know!"

Neal nodded, staring down at their joined hands. "You were walking around to the other side of the van," he started. "Elizabeth dropped her folder, and I bent down to help her pick up the papers. When I looked up, I saw the car coming. I yelled, and you tried to jump inside the van. Then there was a crash. You hit your head on the gear shift, and your right leg was trapped. They had to get the Jaws of Life to cut you out."

He could feel Peter's hand trembling under his own, and he knew that most of the pain in the older man's eyes wasn't physical. "What… what happened to El?"

"The impact drove the van forward," Neal replied, and now it was his voice that was none too steady. "She was pinned against the truck in front of you. Her head… her head hit against the truck."

Peter was quiet for a long moment. "Was the driver drunk?" he finally asked.

"We don't know. The car drove away."

For a moment, the analytical agent was back behind Peter's eyes. "The van was smashed that badly, but the other car was able to be driven?"

"It was a town car," Neal explained. "They tracked it on traffic cameras, and found it abandoned a few blocks away. It was one of the armored executive models."

"Who was it registered to?"

"I don't think they know yet. The license plate was stolen, and the VIN was filed off. The tech team was trying to recover it."

"So it was a hit and run."

"Yeah. But Peter, I'm pretty sure it was deliberate. That car was aiming right for you, and it never slowed down or tried to swerve."

"It might be related to a case?"

"Maybe. That's the working theory anyway. NYPD agreed to let the FBI techs take the town car for analysis, in case that's the situation. Jones and Diana are working that angle. Hughes was going to join them today."

"What about traffic cameras? Maybe the car is on video…"

"Peter, they're already working on that," Neal assured him. "It's the weekend. I don't know how many agents they've been able to get called in."

Peter nodded and sighed. "I guess they know their jobs in evidence recovery."

"If there's anything to find, those guys will do it."

"Yeah."

Peter fell silent then, and Neal didn't really know what else to say. There were no words of wisdom he knew of for a situation like this.

It was a couple of minutes before Peter spoke again. "Neal, someone should take care of Satchmo."

"I already did. I went over last night, after I left here. And I crashed on your couch for a few hours, so I fed him again this morning. June's picking him up today. She said he can stay with her until you're back home."

"Thanks." Peter turned his head away, swallowing hard. "He was just this little yellow fur ball when we got him. El picked him out at the shelter, and she named him. She always…"

"She liked jazz," Neal said softly, when Peter's voice trailed off. "She always had good taste in a lot of things."

"Always," Peter agreed.

Silence fell again, broken when the door opened and a nurse walked in. This one was a man, and Neal hadn't met him the day before. His hospital ID said his name was Roy.

Neal took the opportunity to retrieve his hand, stepping back out of the way.

"How are you feeling, Mr. Burke?" Roy asked as he checked the readings on the various pieces of equipment.

"The pain is coming back a little, and that cast itches," Peter said, pointing to his leg.

"Dr. Larkin is doing rounds and should be here soon. He'll be able to check the prescription for your pain medication. And we'll ask about the itching. Sometimes having your leg elevated like that can cause itching, or tingling. Maybe he can approve putting your leg down for a while." Roy paused to check the levels on the IV bag. "What about your head?"

"Hurts a little, but things are clearer now. I still don't remember much detail about yesterday though."

"That's normal, given the concussion," Roy assured him. "It's likely that some memories will come back, but not necessarily everything."

Peter nodded. "Neal was just filling me in on what happened. Some of it seemed a little familiar."

"Just don't worry too much about the memory gaps, Mr. Burke. You need to give yourself time to heal." Roy stuck a thermometer under Peter's tongue, quieting his patient while they waited for the reading to be finished. "Do you have any nausea?"

Peter shook his head.

"That's good." Roy retrieved the thermometer, nodding his approval. "Your vital signs are definitely improved, and stable over the last few hours. Dr. Larkin has requested some cognitive testing. If that goes well he'll probably approve moving you out of ICU and onto the general medical floor later today."

"That's really good news, Peter," Neal said. "I brought the charger for your phone. I know you can't use it in ICU, but I'm sure there are people you need to call."

Peter nodded. "El's family…" He choked back a sob. "What do I tell her family?"

Roy had carefully backed away, making some notes in the electronic medical record; Neal kind of wished he had that option. "Let's see what the tests on the baby show," he suggested.

Peter sighed. "Yeah," he whispered, as a single tear slid down his cheek.

Peter's eyes closed, and Neal had no idea what to say. He settled for going to the small patient closet, rummaging until he found Peter's cell phone. It was dead, though apparently undamaged, so hopefully it was just the battery. There were two open outlets near the small sink by the door, so he plugged in both his and Peter's phones to charge.

By then, Peter's breathing had evened out; apparently, the combination of pain medication, physical injury, and emotional crushing had taken its toll.

Neal settled himself on one of the chairs, pouring a cup of coffee from the thermos June had provided. He nibbled on one of the chicken and cashew salad sandwiches he usually salivated over, but he still wasn't much interested in eating.

Peter had always been the strong one. Thinking back, Neal could remember Peter's arms holding him back as he tried desperately to run into the flaming inferno that Kate's plane had become. Peter's rock-steady shoulder as Neal had sobbed when the reality of his loss had become too apparent even for him to deny. Peter providing the stability Neal had needed to recover when he got out of prison again. Peter's calm yet insistent words that had kept Neal from shooting Fowler. Peter working past his personal disappointment and anger when Elizabeth was kidnapped, giving Neal the second chance that he hadn't expected. Peter, going against everything his training told him, and giving Neal the signal to run when Kramer was closing in. Peter, risking his job to bring Neal home. Peter, helping Neal to traverse the web of lies and intrigue that surrounded the discovery of his father, and his past.

Some little voice in the back of his head warned that Peter had also failed him at times, jumping to conclusions and hiding things. But Neal silenced the whisperings, simply refusing to grant them space in his conscious thoughts. He and Peter had weathered all of it, and come through stronger.

None of it mattered in the least right now anyway.

Thinking about all of the times Peter had been there, with a quiet strength, made it even harder to see the man who was lying in the hospital bed now. But it also made Neal more determined to be the strong one now, whatever it took.

When Dr. Dolan stepped into the room a little later, motioning for Neal to follow, he went. They made their way back toward the long-term care wing, and Neal steeled himself to be there for Peter, for Elizabeth, and for the baby that might wind up being the reason Peter pulled through all of this.

* * *

Peter was awake, and conscious of his surroundings, for several minutes before he actually opened his eyes. Somehow, the darkness seemed safer.

When he did look around, he quickly noticed that he was alone in the room. Much of what had happened the day before was still a fuzzy blur, but he was fairly certain that Neal had really been there earlier.

Then again, with no real time reference to go by, he wasn't altogether sure how long he had been asleep this time.

His right leg was still bothering him a little – whether it was itching, or tingling, as the nurse had suggested, didn't really matter. He tried shifting a little in the bed, but all he succeeded in doing was setting off some kind of alarm.

The door opened, and the male nurse he remembered from earlier came in. "I just tried to move a little," Peter admitted.

Roy nodded, reaching for the IV line. "You just got a little kink in this, so the fluids weren't flowing as they should. Happens all the time."

"Did I miss the doctor?"

"You did, but not by much. Dr. Larkin is actually still doing his rounds here in ICU. I'll let him know you're awake."

Whatever Roy did, the alarm finally stopped – something Peter's head very much appreciated. "My friend who was here earlier, do you know where he is?"

"Mr. Caffrey? He went with Dr. Dolan a while ago."

"Were they doing the tests on my wife?"

Now Roy hesitated for a moment. "I believe so," he finally said. "Would you like me to call down there and ask him to come back?"

_What Peter really wanted was to be there himself. No, what he really, __really__ wanted was to wake up and find that he had eaten something that had a given him a really bad dream. The worst dream ever…_

He shook his head. "No, I want someone to be there."

Roy nodded in understanding. "I'll check on the doctor," he promised. "In the meantime, do you think you could eat something? Or at least try some juice?"

Peter considered that for a moment. He really couldn't say he was hungry, though he supposed he should be. But he wasn't sure that the empty hole he could feel inside of him could handle much right now. "Maybe a little juice," he finally said.

"I'll be right back," Roy promised.

There wasn't much Peter could do _except_ wait, so he stared at the ceiling tiles. There was some kind of pattern there…

He hadn't figured it out yet when the door opened again. But it wasn't Roy coming back. Instead, Neal walked in, a plastic cup of orange juice in one hand and some papers in the other.

"Roy said you wanted this," Neal said as he pulled the rolling table over and set the cup down. He adjusted the flexible straw and pushed the table into place over the bed.

"Thanks." Peter reached for the cup, fighting the way his hands were shaking. He hoped it was from the drugs. But he managed to lift the cup and sip through the straw by himself, negating the need for Neal's hovering. "What's that?" he asked, pointing at the papers.

Neal unfolded one and held it out. "Your daughter," he said softly.

Peter's hand seemed to be shaking even more as he reached for the page. It was a printout from an ultrasound, and he could clearly make out the bent fetal shape. "They did the tests?" he whispered.

Neal pulled up a chair and sat down. "They did. I just came from there. Dr. Khalil will be stopping by in a little bit to talk to you. But Peter, everything they said while I was there sounded really good."

"But El…"

"No change, Peter. I'm sorry."

"I guess I just need to accept it…"

"Peter, if there was ever a cause to break down a little, this is it. No one could blame you."

"I'm scared, Neal," Peter admitted. "I'm scared if I do that, I won't find my way back."

Neal's hand wrapped around his, squeezing tight. "That's what you've got me for, Peter. You always find me."

"Yeah, I do," he whispered.

* * *

"Mr. Burke, I'm Dr. Larkin."

Peter looked over at the door as the speaker walked in. Dressed in the ubiquitous white lab coat, worn over pale blue scrubs, Larkin was fairly short, probably a good four or five inches under six feet. His closely cropped hair could reasonably be described as salt and pepper, with the salt beginning to take the lead. Black framed eyeglasses gave him a scholarly appearance.

All in all, Peter decided, the guy looked like a doctor.

He gave a small nod in greeting. "Doctor."

Larkin looked across the bed to where Neal was standing by the window. "And you are?"

"Neal Caffrey. I'm a friend of Peter's."

"Is it all right if he stays?" Peter asked.

Larkin nodded. "If you approve it, that's absolutely fine."

"There's a lot going on," Peter replied. "I'd like someone else to know, in case I need help."

"It's good to have a friend who can do that for you," Larkin said, looking at Neal. Then he turned his attention back to his patient. "I'm sorry I missed you earlier," Larkin continued, scanning the chart notes. "So tell me, how is your head feeling?"

"It still hurts a little," Peter admitted. "Not as much as before. And things don't seem as foggy in my mind."

"That's good news." Larkin was leaning over, shining a small penlight in his eyes. "Your pupils are also reacting to the light more than the history shows. Another good sign. How's your memory today?"

"Better, I think. I still don't really remember the crash itself. But I don't have the feeling that I'm missing big chunks of memory elsewhere."

"Well, you did suffer a Grade III concussion, which is the most serious. Fortunately, most people recover from the physical symptoms within a few days."

"So I'll get my memory of the accident back?"

Larkin pulled up a chair next to the bed and sat down. "Mr. Burke, the brain is a funny, complex thing. The fact that you don't remember the exact moment of trauma could be physical. But it's often the case that people block out traumatic events as a means of self-preservation."

"You mean I might not remember."

"It could go either way. It's absolutely not a concern at the moment from a medical standpoint. And, although I understand how difficult this may be to put into practice, my advice to you is to worry about it as little as possible. These first few days, the best therapy is rest – physical and mental."

"Hard not to think about it," Peter whispered. "My wife…"

"I do understand," Larkin said, his voice gentle. "And I am very sorry about your wife. My primary concern, however, is to make sure that your own health isn't jeopardized."

"Of course," Peter said, without feeling. _How the hell was he supposed to care about his health when El was gone…?_

"How's your leg feeling today?" the doctor asked, intruding on Peter's thoughts.

"Not a lot of pain, but I imagine the drugs are responsible for that. It's really uncomfortable though. The elevation angle, and it's itchy."

Larkin added a couple of notes, nodding. "What I'd like to do, Mr. Burke, is some cognitive testing. That will help determine how much the concussion is still affecting you. The head injury is the main thing keeping you here in ICU. If the tests indicate that we can move you to a general medical unit, I'll order a new set of x-rays as part of that move. The severity of the injury to your leg dictated the elevation, mainly to keep the correct pressure applied. We may be able to change that based on the updated x-rays."

"Thank you."

"As for the itching, there is a steroid combination that can help. But it's not something I can prescribe while you're still under observation for a brain injury."

"So I guess I need to pass your test."

Larkin smiled and stood up. "Yes, that's exactly true. The good news there is that you seem to have been following this conversation just fine, and that's part of the test. I'll have one of the nurses set up for the rest of the testing. It won't take long."

Peter nodded. "Thank you, Doctor," he said, watching as the physician walked out into the hall.

"You are sounding a lot better, Peter," Neal offered, walking closer to the bed.

"Last night, even this morning, it was like there was a fog in my head," Peter admitted – even though he hated saying the words. "It's almost clear now."

"That's really good, Peter. If they move you out of ICU, you can probably get rid of a bunch of these machines."

"Wouldn't mind that." Peter shifted in the bed, this time making sure not to cause a kink in the IV line; he'd had enough of those alarms.

"So, all you have to do is pass this test. Being a mathlete and all, I bet you aced exams all the time."

"Only math."

"Maybe this test will have lots of numbers."

"Maybe." Peter sighed and closed his eyes. "What do I say when they move me out of here and I can make phone calls? What do I tell El's family?"

Neal sat down, and Peter felt the younger man's hand wrap around his. "One step at a time, Peter. Let's get you through this test first, and then we'll figure it out."


	11. News

Peter passed his tests.

He couldn't really say that Peter _aced_ them, Neal reflected. There were still a few rough spots. But he did well enough that he was being moved out of ICU and to the general medical floor.

Neal had found himself politely, but firmly, requested to leave while preparations were made for the move. And since those preparations involved things like a sponge bath and changing catheters, he didn't really mind complying.

He needed a break from the discomfort in the room anyway.

Oh, not that he expected the witty banter he and Peter had been trading just before…

Just before the world exploded.

But Peter would alternately try to talk about the state of things, and then go morosely quiet. And Neal had no experience –_no fricking clue_ – how to best help his friend.

He had traveled the world, conned and stolen his way across six continents. He had played the part of teachers, historians, doctors, bankers. He had lived and loved around the globe.

Nothing had prepared him for this.

Part of him felt proud that Peter was relying on him as a friend through these early hours of loss – and part of him wanted to plead to be released from the duty.

Because he had _no fricking clue_ how to do this.

Unfortunately, even in his weakened, shocked state, Peter was still playing an undeniably strong role in making Neal's decision. He kept hearing the agent's voice, telling him that he could be a con or a man…

He was going to try his best to be a man. He owed Peter his best effort.

So he took his newly recharged cell phone, and the other half of the chicken cashew salad sandwich, and headed outside.

His first call was to Hughes – getting moved out of ICU counted as a significant change, right?

_With Peter out of action for a while, a niggling voice in the back of his head reminded Neal that Hughes probably had a great deal of control over his immediate future. Besides, the Bureau Chief could be almost as intimidating as Diana at times…_

Hughes was in the evidence lab with Jones and Diana, so Neal actually wound up giving his report on speaker phone. He gave them the good news that Peter's condition was improving, the bad news that there was nothing to be done for Elizabeth, and the hopeful news that the baby might yet be saved.

Hughes even asked Neal how _he_ was doing. Neal considered that for a moment, before admitting that he was in over his head, and if any of them had any suggestions to _please_ let him know.

No one had any sage words of wisdom for the situation, but all three promised to stop by the hospital later in the day, and at least give him a break.

The evidence process was moving slowly, but they had some progress to report. A painstaking review of traffic cam footage finally confirmed that the other car seen leaving the alley was, indeed, a Chevy Malibu. They even had a license plate number…

Which, unfortunately, traced back to a stolen vehicle report from Camden, New Jersey, filed last Thursday.

The vehicle was lost from the camera footage somewhere in the Bronx. NYPD was blanketing the area, searching for the vehicle. An attack on one of their own brought the law enforcement community banding together, so the quest was highest priority.

The town car had yet to give up much of anything helpful. Someone had taken great pains to wipe it down to hide evidence. The tech team had found a couple of partial fingerprints, and the results had been run through the computer. Unfortunately, there were a few hundred possible hits returned; agents were reviewing them, trying to narrow the suspect pool down.

The computer techs were working with a few grainy shots that showed bits of the driver. So far, there was no usable photo.

NYPD had gone back to everyone who had been interviewed at the scene the day before, asking for any video or still camera shots taken around that time. Sometimes suspects liked to come and watch the results of their work, and it had taken quite a while to clear the scene, given how Elizabeth had been pinned and Peter trapped in the van. Facial recognition was being run, and as more agents could be brought in, human efforts would also be expended.

Now that time was moving by on Sunday, more and more people were coming home from weekend activities that may have taken them out of cell phone range – or just activities where they may have simply turned their phones off.

By Monday morning the Bureau would be back at full strength…

And Hughes wanted Neal there in the morning for a nine o'clock briefing.

Neal agreed, of course – and found himself with conflicting emotions. He wanted to be part of the investigation, to find out who had done this. And as a witness, he _knew_ it had been an intentional attack.

But he also worried about leaving Peter alone.

Almost as if he was reading Neal's thoughts, Hughes pointed out that Peter's parents were in Ithaca, only a few hours away. And he gently asked if Peter had called them yet.

Neal promised to ask Peter about calling them when he went back inside.

When he finished with the FBI call, Neal made his next call to Mozzie. He'd found several messages from the other man when he turned his cell phone back on. Given the odd, yet surprisingly close, relationship Moz had developed with Elizabeth, it wasn't surprising.

It took a significant amount of conversation, but Neal did finally convince Mozzie that Peter most likely would _not_ appreciate the offer to have a voodoo practitioner visit the hospital. Reanimation didn't strike him as something that should be pursued.

_But yes, once Peter was out of the hospital, Mozzie was more than welcome to take it up with the agent personally…_

_At his own risk_.

And if Mozzie happened to have some street contacts in the Bronx, maybe they could keep an eye out for a silver Chevy Malibu. Neal gave him the license plate number that the traffic cam search had uncovered.

He checked in briefly with June, receiving reassurance that Satchmo had, indeed, arrived on Riverside Drive. So far, Bugsy was keeping the much larger dog in check, and there had been no major catastrophic events between the two of them.

When he disconnected the call, Neal checked the time on his phone. He had more than given the staff the time they had indicated it would take to get Peter moved, so he should probably head back in.

He took a quick look at the half sandwich, which had definitely been more appetizing earlier in the day, before it sat around for hours. He tossed it in the garbage can on his way back inside, and then followed the signs toward the cafeteria. He'd grab something quick to eat, and a fresh cup of coffee, and then go find Peter's new room.

Hopefully they could get Peter to eat a little bit too. He'd need his strength to recover, and get through the emotional roller coaster that was sure to lay ahead of him.

One of the first twists might be coming later today. Dr. Khalil had planned to have all of his test results completed, and would be coming to talk to Peter.

Neal could only hope Khalil would bring some much-needed good news. That might make those upcoming phone calls marginally easier.

* * *

The general medical wing was on third floor, and Neal got off the elevator there, making his way down to Room 313. He passed a nursing station on the way, but visitors weren't as tightly regulated here as in ICU. In fact, there was no one even behind the desk.

He stopped in the doorway for a moment, just looking in. It was a single room, and that was definitely Peter in the bed. The agent had his head raised and, for the moment at least, his leg was down, though the cast appeared to be connected to the end of the bed. There were definitely far fewer machines than in the ICU room, though Peter was still hooked up to one IV, and a single monitor was hooked to a couple of leads on his chest.

Peter was staring down at his hands, and as Neal stepped into the room, he could see what the other man was holding.

His cell phone.

For a brief moment, the thought flashed through Neal's mind that he was so glad _he_ didn't have to make the calls to family members. He pushed it aside, knowing it was selfish – knowing that he would do whatever he could to support Peter through this.

_Except make the calls…_

"Hey, Peter," he greeted as he walked toward the bed. "You're looking better."

Peter nodded. "Yeah, they cleaned me up." He tugged at the top of the hospital gown. "Fancy new clothes."

"I can bring something in for you, if you want. Do you know how long you'll be here?"

"Larkin wasn't sure yet. He called our family doctor, and they're waiting for a call back from Simpson's office. I guess there might be some rehab time because of this," he finished, tapping on the cast.

"It's a pretty bad break, and there was muscle and ligament damage. That's going to take a while to heal."

"Yeah." Peter looked down again, twisting the phone in his hands. "What do I tell them, Neal? I have to call El's family."

Neal sighed and pulled a chair closer to the bed, dropping onto the seat. "Has Dr. Khalil been in yet?"

"No. When they moved me up here, they said he was coming in around six."

Based on the time he had just checked outside, that would be in about two hours. "I'd say wait and see what he has to say," Neal advised. "Hopefully there's good news about the baby. You'll at least have a better idea of the big picture."

"Yeah." Peter choked the word out, closing his eyes. "But I still have to tell them their daughter and sister is gone."

"I'd do anything to be able to change that, Peter. If I had just seen the car earlier…"

"No, Neal. Don't, please. There may be a lot of things I'm not real clear on right now, but I know this wasn't your fault."

Neal just nodded; he was going to need some time before he fully accepted that. _He thought they called it survivors' guilt…_

Fortunately, he was saved from needing to answer by a knock on the door.

Neal and Peter both turned, watching as Reese Hughes walked in. "Peter."

"Hello, Reese."

"You're looking better than what Diana Berrigan reported yesterday."

"Yes, definitely better than yesterday. The doctors said most of the concussion symptoms have cleared. But this," he pointed down at his leg, "is going to take a while to heal."

"They let you put your leg down," Neal pointed out. "That's better than before."

"It goes back up later," Peter replied. "The bone is set, but there's concern about putting too much pressure on the ligaments in my knee."

"I guess that explains the tether to the bed," Hughes said, pointing at the same connection Neal had noted earlier.

"I won't be walking anytime soon," Peter admitted.

Neal was studying Hughes – and it looked like the older man might not be walking much longer either. Hughes looked, in a word, exhausted.

"Please, have a seat," Neal said, vacating his chair. He stepped back to lean against the counter by the sink. _He was simply refusing to acknowledge his own exhaustion._

Hughes didn't argue, dropping into the space. "Peter, I am so sorry about Elizabeth. Everyone in the office is."

Peter nodded, swallowing hard. "Thank you."

"We're coordinating with NYPD on the investigation," Hughes continued. "I briefed Neal earlier, so he's probably told you where we are on that."

"Actually, sir, they were in the middle of moving Peter up here when I talked to you," Neal said. "I haven't had a chance."

"I see." Hughes sighed, as if wondering where to start. "We have a lot of pieces, Peter, but no real answers yet. NYPD located the town car that hit you, but the plate was stolen, and the evidence recovery team is still trying to salvage the VIN. We think we've identified the car the driver switched to, but it was also reported stolen. The locals in Camden are checking out the report, but so far it appears to be legitimate. And we lost the new car off of traffic cams up past Yankee Stadium. NYPD has an all points out on it."

Peter had been listening carefully, a stoic look on his face. "No usable evidence in the town car, I take it."

"A couple of partial prints. The list is long, and we have people working on it. It's the weekend, so a number of agents were out of town or otherwise unreachable. We'll be back to full strength tomorrow, and this is our highest priority."

"I appreciate that."

"We take care of our own, Peter, you know that. Have you remembered anything else that might help?"

Peter shook his head. "The whole crash, and everything right after it, is still a blur. I only know what Neal has told me. And he said it appeared to be deliberate."

"Other witnesses indicated that as well," Hughes confirmed.

"So this really might be related to one of my cases," Peter said.

"That's the working theory, and why we've taken primary position on processing the evidence."

"Damn it!" Peter shifted, and then gasped as a wave of pain hit him. "I wish I could _remember._"

"Well, we have leads to pursue, so don't worry about it. But if you do think of anything, just let us know." Hughes paused, cleared his throat. "Now, what can we do for _you_?"

For a long moment Peter didn't – maybe couldn't – answer. "I don't even know," he finally admitted.

"Caffrey said there was still hope for the baby?"

Peter just nodded, and didn't seem able to speak, so Neal volunteered more information. "The head of the Obstetrics department did some tests this morning. He's supposed to be back later today to talk about the results."

"Well, we'll all be pulling for good news there," Hughes said softly. "Peter, the Bureau has counselors on call, to help agents through traumatic situations. I can put in a call, have someone come and talk to you, if you'd like."

Peter sighed and shook his head. "Not yet. I don't think I even have my thoughts clear enough to talk to someone now."

Hughes seemed to accept that, at least for the time being. "I understand," he said, getting to his feet. "I've told Neal I need him in the office tomorrow, but I'm sure he'll still manage to spend some time here. I'll leave it to you to let him know when you're ready for more visitors. There are quite a few people who would like to come, but I've asked them to hold off for now and not overwhelm you."

"Thank you. I think I do need a little more time to process everything. Maybe a couple of days. I'll let Neal know."

"That's fine." Hughes reached over, grasping Peter's hand. "And you know you can call me, anytime, if there's something I can do."

Peter just nodded, and after a moment Hughes let go and turned toward the door. "I'll let you know when we have more information," he promised. "Until then, make sure you take care of yourself."

Neal watched as the agent walked out into the hallway, and then turned back to Peter. "Speaking of taking care of yourself, have you eaten anything today?"

"Some Jell-O this morning." Peter shrugged. "I haven't really been hungry."

"I understand, but remember when you insisted I had to eat after Kate's plane blew up?"

Peter nodded, though it seemed to be a bit reluctant.

"Well, now you have to eat." Neal opened the drawer on the bedside table and found what he was looking for – the patient services guide. It had a list of all of the food items available to be ordered, all broken down by different categories depending on a patient's condition. "I'm going to find a nurse and see which classification you're in," he offered. "Then we'll order something for you, all right?"

"Yeah. I'll try to eat."

That was probably as good a promise as he could expect right now, Neal decided. "I'll be right back," he said.

* * *

Peter had made it through half of a dry turkey sandwich – mayonnaise was not on his approved list of food apparently – and was working on a cup of rather tasteless green jiggly gelatin when someone walked in the door of his room.

Neal looked up as well. "Oh, Peter, this is Dr. Khalil."

Khalil nodded in acknowledgement, the overhead light glinting off of the wire rim glasses perched on his nose. "Mr. Burke. And Mr. Caffrey."

Peter found his hand shaking as he set the spoon down on his tray. "Doctor. I assume you have some test results."

"I do." Khalil pulled a film out of the envelope he carried, clipped it to the light panel near the door, and flipped on the switch.

Peter leaned forward, ignoring the discomfort in his leg, as he looked at the display. "That's the ultrasound Neal showed me."

"Yes, we did give Mr. Caffrey a printout to bring to you." Khalil leaned in closer to the ultrasound and pointed to something. "This is what we were particularly looking to see," he said, circling an area near the edge. "Between this, and some other testing we were able to do, we are reasonably certain that the embryonic sac was not damaged in the accident."

Peter found he was almost afraid to ask his question, and, indeed, his voice shook a bit, despite his best efforts at control. "Does that… does that mean the baby is all right?"

Khalil left the image displayed and pulled a chair up close to the bed. "Mr. Burke, I need to caution you," he said as he sat down. "There is no certain way to test for brain damage in a case like this while the fetus is still in the womb. However, the fact that the sac is intact, and the placenta firmly attached, is an extremely good sign. And from the emergency reports, it seems that CPR was started quite promptly – a lack of oxygen is always a concern in a case like this."

Peter nodded, staring at the green gelatin as if it held some answer for him. "Neal was there," he said softly.

"Yes, Mr. Caffrey started CPR, and the paramedics got your wife on oxygen very quickly." He pulled something else out of the envelope, handing over a sheet of paper. "We have been monitoring the fetal signs all day. These are the results."

To Peter, it looked like a bunch of squiggly lines. "Is this good?"

"It's very good," Khalil assured him. "The fetal heartbeat is strong, and steady within normal variance. We saw definite spikes during periods of activity, which is entirely within accepted norms for this stage of development."

Peter looked back up at the ultrasound display. "So what are you saying?"

Khalil sighed, taking a moment to remove his glasses and rub the bridge of his nose. "Mr. Burke, words cannot express the sorrow over what happened to your wife," he started. "However, every test we have run indicates that the fetus is still very viable." He paused, looking back over his shoulder at the ultrasound picture. "Delivering the baby now is contra-indicated," he continued. "Based on the fetal development and size, survival odds would be extremely low, and the risk of severe birth defects and lifelong complications, even if the baby did survive, is very high. Even another four to six weeks of gestation would improve the odds for the child significantly."

"So…" The words caught in Peter's throat, and he gratefully accepted the glass of water Neal handed him. He drank, took a deep breath, and tried again. "So are you saying you want to keep El alive for that time?"

"We would recommend keeping your wife's body functioning," Khalil corrected gently. "There is only one life we have a chance of saving, and the best chance for that is to keep the fetus in the womb until its viability improves."

"And then… El dies."

"Mr. Burke, your wife's bodily functions – circulating blood and oxygen – are being performed entirely by machines. We are providing nutrition to her body through a tube. But she has no brain function. She is, regrettably, already dead."

Peter choked back a sob and closed his eyes, crumpling the paper he held as his hands fisted.

It was Neal who broke the silence. "So what does Peter need to do?"

Khalil took some forms out of the envelope and set them on the table next to the food tray. "This outlines the care and timeline we propose," he explained. "We just need a signature to authorize the care."

"Does he have to do it right now?" Neal asked.

"No, take some time and read the forms. Nothing will change with your wife's care, and we will continue to monitor the fetus for any signs of distress. But the hospital will need the authorization on file to continue the treatment beyond the next couple of days."

"I'll read it," Peter whispered. "Tomorrow."

"That's absolutely fine," Khalil said. "Mr. Burke, do you have any questions for me? Or you, Mr. Caffrey?"

Peter shook his head slowly and forced his eyes open past the tears that were welling up. "Not that I can think of right now."

Khalil nodded and got to his feet, pushing the chair back against the wall. "Well, if you think of something, let the nurses know and they can page me. I, or one of my staff, will be able to explain anything that's not clear. I do understand how overwhelming this must seem."

Peter sincerely doubted that the man understood _anything_ of what he was feeling, but he just nodded, not trusting his voice.

"Thank you, doctor," Neal said.

Khalil started to turn off the light board, but Peter stopped him. "Can you leave that on? Just for a while. It's… it's as close as I can get to the baby," he finished, his voice cracking.

"Of course." Khalil pulled his hand away from the switch and instead straightened the film. "Again, please let me know if there are any questions I can answer for you."

Peter was peripherally aware that the doctor left, but he didn't really _see_ the man go. In fact, he couldn't see much of anything right now.

He felt Neal's hand on his arm, a touch of reassurance. "Peter, what can I do?"

"I'd like to be alone for a few minutes," Peter managed to whisper. "And then… maybe you could help me make some calls." _Not that he had any idea how he was going to be able to do that…_

"Whatever you need, Peter."

"Neal, if I'm asking too much…"

Neal's smile was instantaneous, small, and one of the genuine variety. "Not possible, Peter," he said. "I'll be back in a little bit."

* * *

He managed to make it to the public restroom by the family lounge without his façade of calm breaking. Fortunately, it was a private room; even more fortunately, it was empty when he got there.

Neal honestly wasn't sure he would have made it any farther.

He clicked the lock, leaning heavily against the door. _Seriously, nothing Peter could ask would be too much? This was __all__ too much…_

He could feel the _fight or flight_ impulse kicking in. Since he rather abhorred violence, his choice throughout life had generally been flight.

But he had said the words out loud, made a promise, and he didn't lie to Peter.

So somehow he had to get his act together so he could go back into that room.

He took advantage of the facilities while he was there, and then splashed some cold water on his face. He held the paper towels over his face for a long moment, not wanting to look at his reflection in the mirror.

He had to literally, physically, pull himself together. He adjusted the collar on the polo shirt he was wearing, opened one more button at the top. _And it still felt like he was choking, though he knew that really had nothing to do with the collar being tight._

Neal finally unlocked the door and stepped out into the hallway, the picture of calm once again. He turned toward the bank of elevators, punching the down button. The cafeteria was still open for a little while, and he was desperately in need of a cup of coffee.

_Among other things…_

Peter wasn't allowed caffeine yet, so he'd take a little time, sit downstairs, and drink his coffee.

Then he'd somehow find the strength to go back up to Peter's room…


	12. Darkness

'_Hello, Mom… Yes, it has been a couple of weeks… Mom… Mom, I really need to tell you something… Yes, I am crying… Mom, it's El…'_

'_Hello, Alan… Yes, I know we usually call earlier in the day… Alan… No, I'm so sorry, El can't come to the phone…'_

Those had to be the two worst phone calls Neal had ever heard. Peter somehow made it through the call with his own parents. But when it came time to talk to the Mitchells, Peter barely managed to choke out the words 'brain dead' before the phone dropped from his fingers and clattered to the floor. By the time Neal crawled under the bed, where the phone had slid, and retrieved it, Peter had turned his head into the pillow, his shoulders shaking in silent sobs.

_And somehow the phone was still working… damn it._

He could hear Alan Mitchell on the other end, shouting for Peter. But Peter had been in no shape to continue the conversation.

So Neal tried his best.

_He'd only the met the Mitchells once, and for a brief period of time. He had brought Elizabeth's birthday gift but, respecting Peter's desire to keep him away from El's parents, Neal had simply left it on the front steps and called Peter to say it was there. And then the door opened and El came out, calling to him down the block, demanding that he come inside. And it was her birthday, so how could he have refused…_

Neal answered the questions he could, keeping his replies as short as possible. He gave the Mitchells his own cell number, asking them to call when they knew their travel plans.

_Surely, under the circumstances, he could get an exception to his radius to go to LaGuardia, or JFK, whichever it turned out to be. Better yet, maybe he could get Jones or Diana to escort him so he didn't have to face the bereaved parents all on his own…_

It took a while, but he was finally able to get the call completed. And yes, maybe it wasn't the smoothest move ever, suggesting that Alan and Doris should hang up so they could concentrate on making plane reservations and packing, but it worked.

_He would have been crying right along with Peter if he'd had to listen to the anguished voices of Elizabeth's parents much longer._

Neal closed the call and, on impulse, checked the call log, memorizing both phone numbers; under the circumstances, that might come in handy. Then he turned the cell phone off. Peter obviously wasn't going to be making any more phone calls tonight, and Neal didn't want any incoming calls to disrupt the injured man's sleep. Granted, that sleep would be mostly drug induced, but Peter still needed to rest.

"Thanks, Neal."

The two words were so soft, he almost didn't catch them. "I told you, whatever you need, Peter."

"Not really what you signed up for, talking to El's parents."

"None of this should have happened, Peter."

"And yet, it did."

"Yeah, it did."

He stood by, feeling helpless, as he watched Peter try to get himself under control. "My parents are driving down early tomorrow."

"Will they want to stay at your house?"

Peter shook his head. "Mom doesn't do too well with stairs these days. They always stay at a hotel when they come down."

"I'll make a reservation for them at one near the hospital," Neal offered.

"I'm not sure how long they're staying."

"I'll take care of it." Neal made a mental note to call the Burkes back with the information on their pre-paid hotel stay. "What about the Mitchells?"

"They're welcome to stay at the house. You can take my keys." Peter made a gesture vaguely in the direction of the drawer in the bedside table. "I don't know. Neither one of them likes to drive in the city…"

"I'll get two reservations," Neal said. _And that meant he'd have to talk to the Mitchells again…_

"Thanks." Peter started to say something else, stopped, drew in a deep breath, and then tried again. "If they're going to see El, I'd like… El has this robe, with flowers on it…"

"Yeah, it was on your bed when I got your phone charger." Neal reached into the drawer and took out the set of keys. "I'll stop and get it tonight, and drop it off in the morning before work." He slid Peter's cell phone into the drawer before he closed it.

Peter just nodded in acknowledgement.

"Do you want anything else from the house, Peter?"

"I guess, maybe, if I'm going to have more visitors. I bought a robe after the Novice case. It's hanging in the closet."

"I'll find it. Anything else?"

"No, I think that's it."

"What else can I do for you tonight, Peter?"

Peter shook his head slowly. "I think I just need to be alone for a while."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. They'll be here soon with the sleeping pills anyway."

Neal glanced up at the clock over the door – it was nearly eight o'clock. The last nurse who had been in had said that was when they'd be doing their nightly rounds.

"All right." Neal stood up, but stayed next to the bed, grasping Peter's hand. "I'm going. But if you need anything, anytime, you call me. Your phone is in the drawer."

"I will."

"I'll be by in the morning with the robes."

"Thanks, Neal. For everything."

Neal wrapped both of his hands around Peter's, hanging on for an extra moment, before finally letting go. "Good night, Peter."

* * *

It was eerie being back at the house in Brooklyn.

For all of the times he had been there before, Neal still hesitated at the threshold. So many good times, laughter, friendship…

Things would never be the same again.

Even in the bare moonlit semi-darkness, it was obvious that the house was too empty. Not even Satchmo was there to greet him tonight.

And if he closed his eyes, he could picture Elizabeth in the kitchen, trying some new recipe that Peter would already have labeled 'fancy stuff.' Elizabeth with a wine glass in her hand, smiling. Sitting at the table with Peter and Elizabeth, slipping Satch a treat under the table. Elizabeth's laughter as she won control of the remote, and the night's movie choice…

His eyes popped open, and he leaned back against the doorway for a moment to regain his balance. He couldn't allow his thoughts to go there.

_And how much worse was it going to be for Peter when __he__ came home to an empty house…_

Neal made his way up the stairs, keeping his eyes open and looking straight ahead. He went right to the bedroom, and to the closet. The inside light came on when he opened the door, adding a soft illumination to the interior, and highlighting how much smaller Peter's 'half' of the closet was compared to Elizabeth's…

_And he really couldn't let himself stop to think about that too much…_

It wasn't hard to locate Peter's robe, hanging at the very back of the walk-in space. The only problem was that he had to move past so many of Elizabeth's clothes to get there. The soft scent of her favorite lavender and vanilla perfume hung in the air.

Holding his breath, Neal grabbed the robe, and backed out of the closet as quickly as he could. He didn't draw a breath again until he had closed the door and stumbled toward the bed.

He took a moment for a couple of deep breaths, and then he picked up the floral robe from the bed.

There was an empty tote bag on a chair near the door and he stuffed both robes inside. He could probably find something better at home, but this would do for now.

And he really didn't want to spend any more time here than he had to.

Except then he made a mistake.

There was a soft glow coming from the guest room and, without really thinking about it, he went in there, his hand automatically reaching for the light switch…

He'd known, of course, that they were converting the room to a nursery, and moving the actual guest room upstairs to the third floor. But he obviously hadn't been up here since the work had progressed.

Instead of the dusky rose walls that had been here before, he was greeted by a soft green. A border of balloons, in all colors of the rainbow, flitted across the top. A crib, complete with soft bumpers featuring teddy bears, was already assembled, and a chest of drawers, with a changing table on top, stood nearby. A rocking chair stood waiting, set underneath the window.

Someone had already been shopping, or gifting, because there was a bin filled with disposable diapers, several full bags from children's stores, and a handful of presents wrapped in cheerful baby prints.

The glow he had noticed was coming from a mobile hanging over the crib. Brightly colored butterflies hung at varying heights, and in the center, a soft nightlight was burning.

Neal felt his knees shaking, and he slid down against the wall until he was sitting on the floor. He pulled his legs up, resting his head against his thighs.

_How could he even think that he could help Peter through this? He had never been the strong one…_

He turned slightly, his hip pressing against the base of a chair, and for a moment he was surprised by the pain that movement caused. But then he realized he'd put Peter's keys in that pocket when he came in. Not being ready to get up yet, he pulled the key ring out…

And made a discovery.

In the dim glow of the night light, he could make out the keys to the house, to the now-defunct van, and to the Bureau car that Peter drove. But it was something else that caught his eye.

The electronic key to his anklet.

_Perfect! When it came to fight or flight, he was generally of the flight persuasion. He could be smart about it. Make the hotel reservations he had promised, take the robes to the hospital, go to work in the morning. He could take a couple of days, in fact, because this time it really would be forever…_

As his hand tightened around the keys, he knew with sudden clarity he wouldn't do it.

_Couldn't_ do it.

What was the challenge Peter had issued? Be a con or a man. Well, maybe these last three years had finally succeeded in forcing him into a choice.

He still wasn't sure he could handle what would be required to see Peter through this terrible time. But he wouldn't run away from trying.

After everything he and Peter had been through together, how could he do anything else?

It was late when he got home, but June was still up. She took one look at his face and opened her arms, wrapping him into a hug. Settling him in the parlor, she disappeared for a few minutes before reappearing with hot tea and cookies. And he still wasn't really sure how long they sat there, sipping tea, eating cookies, and just experiencing June's quiet strength.

When he finally went upstairs, he thought he had absorbed enough of that strength to at least make it through one more day.

* * *

It was a busy morning, and that was even _before_ he got to work.

Through a friend of a friend of a friend, Neal was able to secure reservations at the Wales Hotel for the Burkes and the Mitchells – at significantly less than the posted rack rate. He figured Peter was a little too occupied with other things than to worry about how much Neal was spending on hotel rooms, but at least he could show the other man the discount, if the question did come up.

He called the Burkes first, giving them the hotel information. _And no, he absolutely would not hear of them paying for the room. He was happy to provide the option…_

It was strange, never having actually met Peter's parents before. And now his first direct contact with them had to come under these circumstances.

The Mitchells called with their flight information before Neal could call them, and that saved him from wondering if, with the time difference, it was too early to call them. They were leaving to drive to Chicago, and catching a Delta flight out of O'Hare. It would get them in to JFK at three twenty that afternoon. Their other daughter, Adrienne, was going to need to make arrangements with her employer and for her children, so she would be coming out a little later.

Neal made a note of the flight information, and promised to have someone meet their flight. He gave them the confirmation information for their hotel stay, and told them to let him know when Adrienne had her flight booked and he would take care of getting another room.

Fortunately, it wasn't yet high tourist season for New York, and Fleet Week was still a couple of weeks off, so it shouldn't be a problem. Still, he was going to owe his contact a seriously nice bottle of wine.

He was at the hospital well before normal visiting hours. On the medical floor, the curtain was pulled around Peter's bed, and at the desk they told him it would be at least another thirty minutes before anyone would be allowed in. A polite smile, and the judicious use of the word please, got him a sheet of paper. He scribbled a note updating Peter on the travel plans he knew about, reminded the agent to call him if he needed anything, and then left the note and the robe with the nurse for delivery.

The long term care floor was, as usual, quiet; too quiet. He stopped at the desk and explained his mission. The nurse walked down to Elizabeth's room with him, nabbing an aide along the way for assistance. Between the three of them, they were able to maneuver Elizabeth into the robe without dislodging any of the machinery keeping her body functioning.

Neal explained that her parents would be arriving later in the day. The aide – whose nametag read 'Brandi' – promised to give Elizabeth some special care once morning rounds were complete. Her hair would be washed, nails polished, bandages refreshed and made smaller, if possible. And yes, if Neal had flowers delivered, Brandi would make sure they were nicely displayed in the room. She had a twelve hour shift that day, so she was sure to be there.

_He needed to find out if there were rules about gifts to hospital personnel._

He wasn't used to actually having a car at his disposal, and he almost hailed a cab when he left the hospital. But he remembered in time and walked around to the parking garage.

Time to get to work.

* * *

The briefing started with Neal on the spot for a report on Peter's health, as well as the status of Elizabeth and the baby. He could give them the good news, that Peter's concussion symptoms were easing; and the bad news that the agent was in for a long rehab and recovery period for his leg.

_Elizabeth…_

Neal had to pause, taking several deep breaths, when he tried to talk about her. Fortunately, the agents seemed to understand, and gave him the time in silence. But then he had to confirm that the doctors could detect no brain activity. Her body was being kept functioning by machines.

And yes, the bright spot in all of the news was that the baby seemed, against all odds, to be doing well. The proposal was to give the baby another month to six weeks of time to develop. She would still be premature, but her chances would be much better. Peter had the documents, and would most likely sign the authorization once he'd had a chance to process everything.

He stressed Peter's appreciation for all of the good thoughts being sent his way, and reiterated the agent's wish to wait a couple of days before having more visitors.

Hughes took over the meeting then, recapping the progress made over the weekend. There was still no confirmed sighting of the silver Malibu in the Bronx, or anywhere else, but NYPD would continue to look. They had some new video footage from private security systems coming in this morning, and were hoping to possibly see the car somewhere that the traffic cameras didn't cover.

Just in case, the alert for the car was expanded outside of the Metro area.

There was no definitive evidence recovered from the town car, despite an exhaustive, detailed search. But there was a potential lead from the partial fingerprint. Agents were still combing through the list, looking for possible connections, but one name had been flagged. Hughes clicked up a photo on the display screen.

Neal caught his breath and leaned forward. "Damon Loughler."

"This photo was taken by someone at the scene of the accident on Saturday," Jones explained. "Facial recognition pinged on him after we added his name to the list."

"He was at the park?" Neal asked.

Jones nodded. "That photo was from one of the people interviewed as a witness. He stuck around and was snapping pictures."

Diana opened a folder in front of her. "Loughler's name has come up in connection with the Russian mob in a few recent investigations. Organized Crime is pulling their records to see if they have anything we don't."

"And Peter arrested him in the first place," Neal added.

"Ruiz did mention that Loughler was seen with a known ID creator," Hughes pointed out.

"Yeah, Bucky," Neal supplied. "I have someone looking for him."

"Would it do any good to put you out on the street to contact sources directly?" Hughes asked.

Neal shook his head slowly. "Most of the people I used to deal with aren't speaking to me these days," he said, a touch of sadness and resignation in his voice. "In that world, I'm a snitch."

"Do you think Mozzie can find him?" Jones asked.

It was a sign of the seriousness of the situation that Neal didn't even mind Mozzie's name coming up in the FBI conference room. "Yeah, I'm sure he can. I had him looking for sources on the Malibu, but I'll tell him Bucky is top priority. There's not much Moz wouldn't do for Elizabeth."

"All right, whatever we can do to find Loughler. He's definitely a person of interest. Comb through the files, talk to anyone you can think of. Someone has seen this guy," Hughes ordered. "But having his new name will definitely help."

"I'll call Moz as soon as we're done here," Neal promised.

Hughes was closing up the folders open in front of him. "Those of you working on the list of hits from the partial prints, keep going on that. The case against Loughler is all circumstantial, and we don't want to miss anything else. If any new cases come in for White Collar, run them by me. This is top priority until I say otherwise. Anything that's not urgent will just have to wait a few days. Anyone have anything else?" No one spoke up, so Hughes pointed to the door. "All right, let's get back to work. Jones, Berrigan, Caffrey, you stay for a minute."

The other agents cleared out of the room and Jones shut the door after them.

"Neal, you've spent the most time with Peter these last two days," Hughes started. "How is he really doing? Not just physical."

"It's hard on him," Neal admitted. "He can't remember the crash itself, so that's bothering him. And losing Elizabeth…" He paused, not really sure what to say. "I think it's really hard on him, knowing that she's just down on another floor. Her body still seems alive, and yet Elizabeth is dead."

"Has he been able to see her?" Diana asked.

"For a few minutes on Saturday night. There's some major ligament damage in his leg, and they're worried about moving him too much," Neal replied.

"They had his leg fastened to the bed frame yesterday," Hughes noted.

Neal nodded. "Having his leg elevated all the time was bothering him, so the doctors are letting him put it down for short periods. But he needs to keep it really still, with as little pressure on his knee as possible."

"Damn." Jones sighed. "But the baby really has a good chance?"

"The obstetrician seemed really encouraged by the tests," Neal said. "There's no way to test for brain damage from lack of oxygen in the womb, but all the physical signs look good."

"Has Peter called family members?" Diana asked.

"He called them last night. His parents are driving in from Ithaca today. I got them a hotel room near Mount Sinai." Neal paused, looking over at Hughes. "Sir, Elizabeth's parents are flying in from Illinois this afternoon. I'd like to go pick them up, if that's all right."

Hughes nodded. "I'll talk to the Marshals. They might balk at you going to an airport though."

"Actually, sir, I'd be more than willing to have an escort," Neal offered.

"Moral support," the senior agent guessed.

"Yes, sir."

Diana and Jones exchanged a glance, and then she volunteered. "I'll go with you."

"That's fine. I'll leave it to the two of you to work out the timing." Hughes gathered up his folders and turned toward the door. "I'm going to update DC on the case. Let me know if there's any new information."

Neal stood up, reaching into his pocket. "Sir, before you go," he started. "Peter gave me his keys last night to get something from his house, and this was on the ring." He laid the tracking anklet key on the table. "Someone should probably hang onto this."

Hughes stared at the key for a long moment and then reached to pick it up. "I'll do that. Thank you."

Neal reached for his left pants leg. "The anklet's still on, if you want to check…"

Hughes shook his head, pocketing the key. "No, I believe you. And I also believe that you wouldn't run out on Peter."

"Can I admit I thought about it?" Neal asked, annoyed at the shakiness that had crept into his voice.

"I thought a good con never admitted to anything," Diana said, obviously trying to keep her voice light.

Neal shrugged. "Maybe I'm not such a good con anymore."

"Or maybe you're just a better friend," Jones suggested.

"I'm trying," Neal said softly. "But I'm not sure I know how to help him."

"No one here has had to deal with anything like this," Hughes said. "I offered Peter counseling, and I think others of us might benefit from it as well. A lot of us consider Peter a friend, and it might help us discover ways to support him through this."

"The employee assistance program can probably set something up," Diana suggested. "I could call them."

"Do it," Hughes agreed. "If you get any pushback, drop my name, or Bancroft's. He's planning to come up tomorrow."

The senior agent walked toward his office, leaving Neal in the room with Jones and Diana. "I guess I'll go call Moz."

"When you're done, let me know and we can figure out what time to leave for the airport," Diana said.

"And I'm going to go check in with the tech team, see if that new video footage is here yet," Jones added. "We are going to find this guy."

"Yeah." Neal watched as the two agents left the room, heading toward their desks. And then he decided to take advantage of the now empty conference room; it wasn't always a good idea to talk to Mozzie with agents present.

This time though he got voicemail on Mozzie's primary number. He left a message, using their code word, Brunhilda, to indicate a callback was urgent.

While he waited, he pulled up the number for his favorite florist. _He'd recommended __The Paisley Petal_ _to Elizabeth for an event when her regular florist had delivery issues…_

Neal pushed that memory aside and dialed the number. He'd get the flowers for Elizabeth's room ordered, and pay for an extra fast delivery, so Brandi could get everything ready before the Mitchells arrived.

And if Mozzie hadn't called back by the time the ordering was done, he'd move on to the man's secondary and tertiary phone numbers…


	13. Family Matters

Peter found himself staring at the television mounted high on the wall across from the bed. Though if anyone asked, he couldn't have said what he was watching.

_What did he know about daytime television anyway? The only time he had the television on during the day was on weekends, when he could find a game – baseball, football, basketball, hockey._

He wasn't really interested in watching anything anyway.

He'd suffered through the morning routine, reliant on others to be cleaned, and to have his catheter bag changed and bedpan emptied. His hands were still a little shaky after everything he'd been through, so one of the nursing aides used the safety razor and helped him shave. And they gave him some kind of dry shampoo for his hair, saying they wanted to wait at least another day before trying to move him into position for a real cleansing.

He managed to eat some oatmeal, and half a banana. The orange juice was the only thing that tasted good to him at all.

His own physician, Leonard Simpson, stopped in. It was good to have someone familiar overseeing his care. Well, not that he tended to go to the doctor much, but he had been seeing Simpson for over eight years now. So had El…

Simpson had stopped down to see her, and to review her chart. Peter hesitantly brought up the question he almost feared to ask… or at least feared the answer to.

_What about a second opinion…_

Simpson's eyes gave away his answer even before the physician started to shake his head. He'd seen the EEG results, the other tests, and Dr. Dolan was about as good as they came. He was so very sorry. If Peter really wanted, Simpson would recommend another neurologist, but…

Peter shook his head, thought he managed to say no, don't put El through that. Maybe the words didn't come out just that way, but the meaning did, and Simpson nodded in mute understanding. He'd stop back when his office schedule permitted, probably Wednesday afternoon. If Peter needed anything before then, just call the office…

After all of the morning activity, they had helped Peter into the robe Neal had delivered, removed a couple of the monitor leads that wouldn't be needed during the day, and made him as presentable as possible for company.

To offset the lectures about needing to eat to keep his strength up, he let them order lunch for him – chicken a la king, and more of the ubiquitous gelatin. But most of it still lay on the food tray, untouched, as he stared at the television…

"Peter?"

Peter turned toward the doorway, a lump in his throat as his parents entered the room. People had always told him how much he resembled his father. Lowell Burke was just about the same height as his son, still straight-backed in his seventies. His silvering hair was cut short, and styled much the same as his son's.

If his overall appearance favored his father, Peter had always thought he had his mother's eyes, and her smile. Marian kept her hair short now, for easier maintenance, she said. And she was leaning heavily on a cane, courtesy of arthritis and chronic respiratory problems. But her smile – the soft one he knew so well – was in place as she walked toward the bed.

Peter reached out his hand, soaking in the feeling of warmth as his mother grasped it. And for a moment he let himself wish that he was a child again, when that simple touch had seemed to resolve so many problems. Her hugs had worked even more magic back then, and he soon found himself wrapped up in one now.

"Hi Mom. Dad," he finally managed to say.

Lowell slid a chair up next to the bed for his wife and then walked around to the other side. "How are you, son?"

"I'll be fine," Peter said. And physically, that was true. "This will take a while, but it will heal." He tapped the cast on his elevated leg. "And they said I'm past the danger period for the concussion."

Marian still had his hand tightly gripped, and Peter didn't want her to let go – ever. "That's such good news, dear," she said. "But Elizabeth…"

Peter shook his head, blinking his eyes against the tears that threatened to fall again. "There's no brain activity," he whispered. "Nothing the doctors can do."

"When you called last night, you said the baby might still be all right," Lowell said.

"The doctors think so," Peter confirmed. "All the physical signs are good. They want to keep El's body on life support for a few more weeks, let the baby develop a little longer."

Marian had reached for a tissue from the box on the nightstand, and was dabbing the tears on her son's cheeks. "What about her family?"

"Neal left me a note this morning. Her parents are flying in this afternoon. I'm not sure about her sister's plans yet."

"Lyle and Karen are planning to come," Marian said, mentioning Peter's siblings. "I said we'd call them tonight when we knew more."

"Your friend, Neal, said he'd take care of getting rooms," Lowell added, shaking his head. "Son, that hotel he put us in, it has to be costing a fortune. But they told us he was paying for everything."

His mom was patting his hand. "We can move to that little motel near your house."

Peter squeezed her hand back, trying for a reassuring smile. "Neal wanted to do this for you – for me. I want you to stay at the Wales. You deserve it. I'll talk to Neal and see if I can help pay."

_And he __would__ ask Neal… not that he expected his offer to help with the costs to be accepted._

"I'm looking forward to finally meeting this young man," Lowell said.

Marian nodded. "He must be a very good friend."

"He is," Peter agreed. "He really is."

* * *

There were definitely advantages at times to having an FBI agent with you, Neal decided. For instance, at an airport. When most people are relegated to meeting arriving passengers outside of the secured area, an FBI badge can change that.

Diana had flashed her badge, and used just the right amount of official sounding language, with just the right touch of authority in her voice, and gotten them past the TSA checkpoint. Security had balked momentarily when the anklet showed up on the body scan. But between Diana's badge, Neal's consultant ID, and Diana's very definite 'in charge' attitude, the hold-up was only temporary.

_It all just reinforced Neal's previously held opinion that, while he would certainly continue to tweak her now and then, he would try not to ever __really__ piss Diana off. Not unless he developed a death wish…_

In the end, they passed through security and made it to the arrival gate to wait.

And wait.

The Delta flight had left O'Hare on time, but the frequent congestion in the airspace over the New York metro area left the plane circling for nearly forty five minutes.

Which left Neal and Diana waiting for forty five minutes longer than originally planned.

Since Neal had never been good at waiting, and the current circumstances had him rather on edge as it was, the delay was definitely not a good thing. Fortunately, fear of truly pissing Diana off kept his physical display of nervous energy somewhat in check; no death wish on his part yet.

He walked down the concourse and bought coffee for both of them, and a copy of today's newspaper. Diana claimed the front news section, Neal went for the arts segment, and they both pretended to be concentrating on the newsprint while they waited.

Finally, there was the sound of jet engines just outside the seating area, and a gate agent opened the door. A few seconds later the first passengers started to appear.

Diana took their empty cups to a trash can, and dropped the newspaper in a recycling container, while Neal stood just to one side of the counter, watching the deplaning passengers. She had just walked back up next to him when he saw them.

Alan and Doris Mitchell came out together, holding hands. From the harried looks on their faces, Neal wouldn't have been surprised if that contact was the only thing getting them through this trip.

He wouldn't blame them either.

Neal took a deep breath and stepped forward to meet them. "Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell, I'm glad you're here." He held out a hand for the carry-on bag Doris had slung over her shoulder.

As his wife handed over the bag, Alan Mitchell looked around. "I'm surprised you could get to the gate to meet us."

Neal took a step back. "This is Agent Diana Berrigan. Her FBI badge came in very handy."

Diana stepped forward, hand outstretched. "I'm on Peter's team," she explained. "I wish we could have met under other circumstances."

Alan shook hands, nodding his head. "As do I."

Doris had grasped Neal's hand, keeping him close. "Is there… is there any change?"

He shook his head, gently squeezing her hand. "Not in Elizabeth's condition, no. I'm so sorry."

Diana had relieved Alan of his carry-on. "You must have checked luggage to pick up."

"We do," he said. "We didn't know for sure how long we'd be staying."

"I made the hotel reservation for a week," Neal said, starting to follow the signs to Baggage Claim. Since Doris was still clutching his hand, she came with him, and Alan followed his wife. "I can extend it if you decide to stay longer."

"The hotel is close to the hospital?" Doris asked.

"The Wales Hotel is the closest to Mount Sinai," Neal confirmed. "Just a few blocks away, so it's an easy walk or cab ride."

"Can we go to the hospital first?" Alan asked. "I think we need to see our girl."

"Certainly." Neal pointed them down the next corridor. "The hospital it is."

Of course, between waiting for luggage, and rush hour traffic in the city, it was likely going to take a while to get there.

_He just hoped they'd go easy on asking questions he had no answers to…_

* * *

Neal led the way down the quiet corridor toward Elizabeth's room. He'd actually thought he had this planned out better – by offering to take June's Jag to the airport, he'd be driving. So he could drop Diana and the Mitchells off in front, and take his time going to park the car…

Until Diana pointed out that Neal knew the layout, and where the rooms were, and she didn't.

_Damn logic!_

So, after a blessedly silent drive, he had pulled up in the circular drive, turning the keys over to Diana while he accompanied the Mitchells inside.

Brandi was still on duty, and she recognized him when he walked in, giving a small smile as she now took the lead. And Neal was happy to drop back and let the Mitchells go ahead of him.

Brandi opened to door to the room, the Mitchells disappeared inside, and Neal paused a moment. This seemed so intensely personal, parents visiting a daughter who was dead, and yet still looked alive.

But Peter had asked him to do this, and if he hadn't used that key to remove his anklet and run, _run, RUN_, he wasn't going to fail now.

He hoped.

He stepped inside the room, and was instantly amazed. Brandi had, indeed, taken the flowers he had sent – and yes, he may have ordered more than one bouquet – and transformed the room. Some of the arrangements were still in the baskets from the florist, but he could see where she had taken some of the blooms and spread them around the room. And Elizabeth…

Elizabeth looked, in a word, amazing.

Her hair was clean and styled, and a bright pink scarf hid the head injury that had claimed her life. Combined with the floral robe that he had brought in, it was a lovely combination.

_So very Elizabeth…_

Her hands rested on top of the blanket, nails painted in a shade of pink that matched the scarf. It would be so very easy to believe that she was simply sleeping.

Except that her mother had dropped into a chair by the side of the bed, grasping her daughter's hand and crying. Alan was standing behind his wife, looking none too steady on his feet, his face a mask of sheer sorrow.

Brandi was standing just inside the door, and Neal turned to her, forcing a smile. "Thank you," he whispered.

She nodded, a comforting hand on his forearm. "Just let me know if you need anything else."

He laid his hand over hers for just a moment, nodding. And when she moved toward the door, he opened and held it for her.

Which left him alone in the room with the grieving parents.

_And why was it that it seemed he could hear Peter's voice in his head, telling him to cowboy up…_

He was holding onto the partially closed door like a safety blanket, and he finally let it go, stepping forward into the room.

Doris Mitchell turned teary eyes up to look at him. "Are they sure… I mean, she looks so… so alive. There must be something…"

Neal bought himself a little time. He grabbed the second chair in the room and moved it around the bed, motioning for Alan to take a seat. Then he moved to the low table near the window, shifting a couple of vases to make room for him to rest his hip against a thankfully solid surface.

"I was there on Saturday," he started. "When the crash happened. Elizabeth never had a pulse, and she was never breathing. There were paramedics there within a few minutes, but they could never get a pulse, and neither could the doctors in the emergency department here." He paused, wishing he had a glass of water – or maybe a good stiff shot of scotch. "I was here, in this room, yesterday, when they were doing the tests on the baby. The neurologist came in, and she showed me the test results. There's just no brain activity…"

Doris sobbed, and Alan reached over to hold his wife. "I contacted some of my medical colleagues," he said. "They assure me that Rita Dolan is top of her field."

"Yeah, that's what I've found too." _He'd had Mozzie do a little research…_

Alan freed one of his hands and pointed up to the fetal monitor behind the bed. "Been a while since my obstetrics rotation," he said. "But that looks good."

"Dr. Khalil, the obstetrician, was very encouraged. All the tests that he could do at this point were good. I think he left copies with Peter."

"And Peter, how is he doing?"

"I haven't seen him yet today, but physically, he was doing better. The concussion symptoms cleared. But his leg is going to take a while to heal."

Doris finally looked up, wiping away her tears. "Will he be able to take care of the baby?"

"They want to keep Elizabeth's body going for a while, don't they," Alan said.

"It's too early for the baby to be born," Neal confirmed. "Dr. Khalil said another four to six weeks would help her odds."

Doris gasped. "Her?"

"They just found out on Friday," Neal said. "I'm sure they were planning to tell you."

"El usually called on Sunday nights," Alan whispered. "When we saw Peter's number on the caller ID last night, we thought…"

Neal could fill in the rest of the statement that Alan couldn't finish. _They thought it was the call from their daughter, just using her husband's phone…_

"Peter might have more information," Neal started. "I wasn't able to see him this morning when I stopped by, and I'm sure if there have been any updates, he'll know."

"I think… I think we'd like to spend a little more time with our girl first," Alan said, as Doris nodded.

"Of course." Neal pointed toward the door. "I'm going to go up there, see how Peter's doing. His parents were supposed to be driving in today too."

"We'll stop by in a little bit," Alan promised. "It was three thirteen, right?"

"Yes."

The Mitchells had their attention fixed on their daughter – _who wasn't really even there anymore_ – and Neal took the opportunity to slip out of the room. Once in the hall, he leaned against the wall, eyes closed. This just kept getting harder and harder…

He jerked back to reality, opening his eyes when he felt a hand on his arm. "Brandi."

"Are you all right?"

"That's kind of a hard question right now."

"I understand. Do Mrs. Burke's parents need anything?"

"I think they just want to be with her for a while."

"Of course. Do _you_ need anything?"

Neal sighed, running a hand through his hair. _What he really needed was for Moz to call and say he'd found that time machine…_ "How long have you worked in this unit?" he asked, avoiding her question.

"Almost two years."

"Do you have a lot of patients like Elizabeth?"

"Mrs. Burke's case is unusual. Comas are more common."

"How do you… I mean, dealing with that, and the families, day after day…"

Brandi's hand tightened for a moment on his forearm, and she gave him a small smile. "Who needs someone who cares more than the families here?"

Neal nodded, trying to return the smile. "You know, I think what I do need right now is a hug. Is that allowed?"

Her response was to open her arms, and he hugged her back. "It's in my job description," she whispered.

He stepped back, and his smile felt a little more natural now. "Whatever they pay you, it's not enough. Thank you."

A light flashed above a door across the hall. "That's my signal. Let me know if there's anything else I can do," she said, turning away.

_Yeah, he was definitely going to check on the rules regarding gifts to hospital personnel._

Neal took the elevator to the third floor, making his way to Peter's room. The door was open, and he could hear Diana's voice as he got closer, and Peter's. But even though he waited outside the door for a minute or so, he didn't hear any other voices. Maybe Peter's parents had been delayed, or had been there earlier and were taking a break.

Diana was sitting on a chair on the window side of the bed, and both she and Peter looked up when Neal walked in.

Peter was still looking at the door. "Are the Mitchells here?"

Neal pulled another chair over closer to the bed. "They wanted to stay with Elizabeth a little while longer. They said they'll stop by to see you a little later."

"How are they doing?"

"It was hard, Peter. I mean, she looks like she could be sleeping, but…"

"But she's not really there," Peter finished, his voice heavy.

"It's going to take them a while to deal with this," Neal said.

"All of us, I think," Diana said. She reached into her pocket and tossed the car keys over to Neal. "I've got the ticket for the parking ramp. I assume I can get a ride back with you."

Neal nodded, pocketing the keys. "Yeah. Thanks for the moral support."

"Like I was telling Peter, a lot of us are willing to help, we just need to know what we can do."

"You've already done a lot, Neal," Peter added. "You shouldn't have to do it all alone."

"I told you, Peter, whatever you need. I'll do my best."

"I know you will."

"What about your parents? Were they here?"

"Yeah, got here a little after one, and stayed for a couple of hours. Mom needs to eat on a pretty regular schedule with the medications she takes, so they went to dinner."

"They found the hotel all right?"

"They did, and they're very concerned with you paying for it. They seem to think it's too fancy, and expensive. I can help pay…"

Neal waived that off. "I got a deal through a contact. They don't need to worry. I'll take El's parents over there later."

"I appreciate it Neal."

"It's something I know how to do. I'm feeling kind of lost on that in a lot of other ways."

"I'm not even really sure what can, or should, be done right now," Peter admitted.

"So how are _you_ today, Peter? I'm sorry I didn't get to see you this morning."

"The orthopedic surgeon is coming by tomorrow to check my leg. I'm hoping they can figure out a way I can go see El."

"That would be great. Do you need anything?"

"Diana was just getting around to filling me in on the investigation."

"You haven't heard from Mozzie yet?" she asked.

Neal pulled out his phone, checking the history. "Nothing yet. When I talked to him this morning he said he'd check with everyone he could to try and find Bucky." He paused, shaking his head. "Peter, I'm sorry. I had Moz concentrating on finding the car…"

"Neal, you had no way of knowing Loughler might be involved in this," Diana pointed out.

"She's right," Peter said. "You couldn't have known, Neal."

"Yeah," Neal sighed, clearly not fully convinced. "If Moz hasn't gotten back to me by the time I get home, I'll call him again. Peter, he'd like to come and see El, if it's all right with you."

"Never could quite figure out why she liked him so much," Peter said, though he sounded more wistful than confused. "They asked me to provide a list of approved visitors. I'll need a name and then I can add him."

"Ivan Bliminse should do."

"That's the name you gave the hospital when he was shot."

"Your long term memory is working fine."

"I remember asking if it was his real name…"

"It was as real then as it is now."

Peter sighed and capitulated. "I guess it'll do."

"Thanks, I'll let him know."

Peter turned his attention to the other side of the bed. "Diana, you were going to tell me about the investigation."

"What little we actually know at this point," she said. "We're starting to find some pieces."

"Hughes gave this top priority," Neal added. "Everyone's working on it."

"You know, it still might not be Loughler, or at least not him alone," Peter started. "If you brought me some of my past case files…"

"No."

Neal exchanged a glance with Diana over the bed, and they both smiled, realizing they had spoken at the same time.

"I don't think your doctor would approve," Diana said.

Neal agreed. "I'm quite sure he wouldn't."

"The head symptoms have cleared up," Peter argued. "And I'm just lying here…"

Neal shook his head. "Nice try at a con, Agent Burke. But remember who you're talking to."

"And remember who trained me," Diana added.

"You're ganging up on an injured man," Peter grumbled. "I need to do _something._"

"Then concentrate on getting better, Peter." Diana pointed up at the IV bag. "You're still on heavy pain meds. That's no time to be trying to think about case work."

"Besides, I think your family and El's are going to want to spend time with you the next few days," Neal added. "You all need that."

Peter finally sighed and nodded. "Yeah, you're right. But if anything does come up that you need my input on…"

"We'll send Jones," Diana said. "He's looking for an excuse to come visit."

"Besides case files, do you want anything else?" Neal asked.

Peter considered that for a moment. "Maybe my puzzle books," he finally suggested, staring down at his hands. "I just… I feel like I need something to do. To keep my mind off of… other things. At least until I can spend time with El." He looked up at Neal. "There should be some upstairs in my study."

Just about the last thing Neal wanted to do was to go back to the too-quiet home on DeKalb, but, of course, he knew he would. "I'll find them."

"Satchmo get settled in all right at June's?"

"Bugsy was terrorizing him when I left this morning, but June promised she'd get it sorted out."

Peter sighed, leaning back heavily against the pillows. "At least something will get sorted out."

"It's just going to take time, Peter," Diana said.

"I know. Time for me to heal. Time for the baby to grow. Time to develop the investigation." Peter's fist bunched in the sheets by his side. "It's just so damn frustrating, not being able to do anything."

"Hughes mentioned maybe seeing a Bureau therapist," Neal started. "Have you thought more about that?"

"I kind of lost it for a while when my folks were here," Peter admitted. "And now with El's parents…"

"I called the employee assistance program today," Diana said. "They're sending a couple of counselors to the office tomorrow to talk with people. I can ask them about having someone come here."

"I guess a professional perspective might be good." Peter looked over at Neal. "You should make sure to talk to one of the counselors. You were there, witnessed everything. And you've been here at the hospital, taking care of so many things."

Neal tried to shrug it off. "I'm fine." _He wasn't of course, but…_

"Neal…"

"I'll get him to talk to one of the counselors tomorrow, boss," Diana promised. "Sweet talk or strong arm, whatever it takes."

Neal shook his head. "_Employee_ assistance," he pointed out. "I'm not an employee."

"You have coverage," Peter said.

"Sure, through the prison system. Anything other than urgent care has to be coordinated through them. I really don't think that going back to Sing Sing to talk to someone there is going to help me much."

"I'll talk to Hughes," Diana said.

Peter reached out a hand. "You really should talk to someone, Neal."

"Fine, I will."

"Someone other than Mozzie."

Neal shrugged. "He's read a lot of Freud."

"Neal…"

He gave in. "Fine. If it doesn't involve a trip to Ossining, or anyplace else with bars and razor wire, I'll talk to someone." Neal finally reached over and grasped Peter's hand.

"Good enough," Peter said. "And both of you need to say something if I ask too much of you during this."

"We just want to help, Peter," Diana said. "However we can."

Neal nodded. "I already told you, I'll do whatever you need me to."

"I wish I knew what that was right now," Peter sighed.

"Actually, I think you need to order some dinner before the Mitchells get here." Neal got up and rummaged in the bedside table drawer until he found the menu. "What sounds good?"

Peter wrinkled his nose. "I'm still on the restricted diet list because of the medications," he complained. "Nothing on there sounds very good."

"Well, I've been a doctor before," Neal said scanning the list. "And I can tell you that you need to eat to keep your strength up."

Neal pretended not to notice the look shared between the two agents. "When did you say this doctor act was?" Diana asked.

"And where," Peter added.

"Don't think I did say," Neal replied. "But if Peter eats his dinner, maybe I'll tell you a story."

Peter raised a skeptical eyebrow. "That sounds like blackmail."

Neal shook his head. "I prefer to think of it as motivation. Now, what about the turkey stew? Oh, and some Jell-O…"


	14. Progress

The dark seemed endless, overwhelming, as he lay awake. Not that it was _full_ darkness, of course. The soft green glow of the monitor measuring his breathing and heart rate gave the room an almost unearthly look.

_Maybe he could blame his sleeplessness on the glow…_

Maybe it was the stupid blood pressure cuff that auto-inflated periodically. How was anyone supposed to sleep with that going on?

_Even if it hadn't inflated for over three hours now…_

Peter sighed, staring up at the ceiling. The flashing respiration count made an interesting pattern on the tiles over his head. It was fascinating, really.

And much better to think about things like flashing lights on tiles than certain other things that came to mind.

For a while, earlier that evening, things had almost seemed normal. Diana and Neal had done their best to keep things light without going overboard. There had been some of the challenging conversation that marked the best of their friendship.

Of course, things weren't normal. At least, not the normal he had had until that fateful moment Saturday afternoon. He'd never have that normal again.

_It seemed so recent, and yet already a lifetime ago…_

And maybe, if he tried hard enough, he could make believe that the _new_ normal didn't exist.

_How could he go on without El…_

He'd lost all self-control when his parents were there. When his mother had wrapped him in her arms and held him tight, he'd felt like a small child again, desperately needing that physical confirmation of love. Except, unlike when he was small and skinned a knee or an elbow, this wasn't something she could kiss and make better.

His father had surprised him a little. Lowell Burke had never been one of the stringent 'no son of mine will ever cry' types, but neither had he shown much emotion himself. So when his dad joined them on the bed, strong arms wrapped around his wife and son, that comfort seemed normal; the tears Peter saw on his father's cheeks were the surprise.

The visit from the Mitchells had been quite different, a little more formal. They had both obviously been crying when they got to the room, and Doris continued to wipe away an occasional tear while they talked. Neal had disappeared quickly, returning a couple of minutes later with bottled water from a vending machine. And then he and Diana excused themselves to go wait in the lounge until the Mitchells were ready to leave for the hotel.

Peter was content to let them do most of the talking. Alan asked about the test results and Peter handed over his copies, happy that he didn't have to try and explain them. While his father-in-law read through all of the medical jargon, he just lay back and listed to Doris talk about Elizabeth and Adrienne as children. He'd heard many of the stories before, but that didn't matter; in the stories, Elizabeth was alive and well and happy, and nothing had hurt her…

Alan finally pronounced that, in his medical opinion, everything appeared to be in order. He offered to check with some of his colleagues who were much more up to date on obstetrics than he was, but off-hand he agreed with the plan to keep Elizabeth's body functioning for another month or so, to give the fetus time to develop. _This would be their third grandchild…_

Peter wasn't really sure how long they had stayed, but Alan finally reached for his wife's arm, saying it was time to go. And yes, Neal had told them he had the hotel taken care of, so they would find him in the lounge on the way out.

Neal had popped in just briefly right after that, asking if Peter needed anything else, or if he should come back after dropping the Mitchells and Diana off. And Peter had told him no, go home, get some sleep.

_One of them should get some sleep._

He knew the nurses had given him some kind of sleeping medication when they got him ready for the night. The drowsiness had come on suddenly about fifteen minutes later, and he had quickly nodded off.

The sleep just hadn't lasted.

Now, he was torn. On the one hand, he was exhausted; ringing for a nurse and asking for another sleeping pill was probably a good idea. His parents and the Mitchells would be back in the morning. His sister, Karen, was coming in on Thursday. They expected his brother, Lyle, to drive in from Pennsylvania this weekend. The Mitchells were calling El's sister, Adrienne, to see when she could come. It was going to be a busy few days, and that wasn't even considering whatever medical testing and treatment might be going on.

On the other hand, the darkness was comforting in a way. It wrapped around him, making him feel almost invisible. Certainly the nurses checked in from time to time, but unless he crimped his IV line, or otherwise set off an alarm, they didn't really bother him, and he could pretend to be asleep. And he didn't have to wonder if other visitors would stop in, and catch him at his most vulnerable.

He could let the tears fall.

And they did. His shoulders shook with the sobs he tried to keep silent. He wept for the loss of the love of his life, and he wept for the child who would never know her mother. He wept for all of the dreams that had died, and for the hole in his heart that would never fully heal.

Perhaps, like a baby, he could eventually cry himself to sleep…

* * *

It was Wednesday morning when the call from Mozzie came in.

Neal was actually sitting in a meeting in the conference room, listening to the NYPD representatives explaining why some of the crucial traffic cameras near Yankee Stadium had been down on Saturday. Fortunately, he guessed, the explanation seemed entirely bureaucratic and reasonable – budget cuts had reduced the available hours for crews to go out and fix reported problems. And when a repair crew _had_ gone out to the area, they found electrocuted rats.

New York's vermin had struck again, chewing on the cables.

He figured that was better than having some reason to believe Loughler – or whoever it turned out to be – had deliberately sabotaged the traffic cams.

But it still meant that all he could do was sit attentively as his phone vibrated in the inner pocket of his suit coat.

He was the first one out of the room when the meeting ended, his phone out and in his hand before he hit the walkway over the bullpen. When he saw the identity on the missed call, he hurried down the stairs and toward the interrogation room for some privacy.

_He'd made sure Mozzie understood how important finding Bucky might be, so hopefully…_

"Moz, what's… Great, have you talked to him… What's the name… Spell it… Did Bucky have the date… Is there a photo… Yeah, get everyone looking. I'm thinking… I think a reward for whoever finds him is a great plan… Make sure it's alive… Thanks, Moz."

Someone had left a notepad on the table from whoever used the room last, and Neal quickly scribbled the information down and then hurried back to the bullpen.

Jones was at Diana's desk, both of them studying something on the monitor, when he slapped the paper down in front of them. "Damon Loughler's new name, and the date of birth on his forged driver's license."

"Barnaby Wallace," Jones read, as Diana started keying the name into a search. "At least there shouldn't be too many hits on a name like that."

"Bucky does decent work on the ID, but sometimes the basics are tough for him," Neal said, shaking his head sadly. He shrugged when he realized both agents were looking at him quizzically. "When you make a new ID, you want a name that blends in."

"What, like John Smith?" Diana asked.

Neal shook his head. "No, that's too common. You approach certain types of people with that name and they automatically assume it's made up."

"So I guess 'Nick Halden' would be a better choice," Jones suggested.

"Exactly! Not too common, or too uncommon."

"Well, Barnaby hasn't been arrested," Diana said, pointing at the screen. "That was the fastest search. We'll get agents on this, check for leases, bank accounts, hotels."

"Yeah, this is right up White Collar's alley," Jones agreed.

"Mozzie's spreading the name around to his contacts too," Neal said. "Even if Lyovkin is hiding him, he has to pop up somewhere."

Diana was still working on the computer. "I don't suppose we have a photo from the ID."

"Bucky didn't keep a copy of the photo itself – but he still works with film, and he gave Moz the negative," Neal explained. "I'm going to go pick it up now."

"A name, a date of birth, and a photo." Jones smiled. "We're gonna find this guy."

* * *

Peter accepted one more hug from his mother, another handshake from his father, and waved them out of the room with promises of another visit the next day.

Then he sank back heavily against the pillows, fumbling for the bed controls to lower his head a little.

It had been a long day – extremely long – highlighting both his emotional and physical weakness. As much as he loved his parents, having them there most of the day had been a little overwhelming. Add in the Mitchells, who stopped in after spending the morning in El's room, and it had become majorly overwhelming.

He'd also had more tests on his leg, including having the whole bed moved down to take some x-rays. The orthopedic surgeon was going to take the heavy cast off on Friday and further evaluate the ligament damage. With any luck he'd be able to go to a less restrictive cast, which would let him get to rehab faster.

It would let him get to El and their baby.

It was nearly time for the nurses to come in with another round of medications, and an insistence that he order something for dinner. At least they had removed one medication from his routine, which let him move off of the most restrictive diet. He still wasn't sure anything from the cafeteria would seem appetizing, but if eating hastened his exit from all of the medications and machines, he'd damn well eat.

But until then, he'd rest. Karen was coming in tomorrow, and he was usually happy to see his younger sister. Now, however, it would just be one more person hovering.

Yeah, definitely some rest.

* * *

Neal got off the elevator on the third floor, heading toward Peter's room. He hadn't spent this much time in a hospital since Mozzie was shot; unfortunately, there was probably a lot more hospital in his future as Peter recovered.

At least he had a little good news to share with Peter tonight. And, he had to admit, he was feeling a little better himself. Hughes had, indeed, agreed to include him in the employee assistance counseling. He'd talked to a gentle, matronly woman who reminded him of a grandmother – or at least what he thought a grandmother should be like.

He'd never really known his own.

And while she hadn't succeeded in making all of his guilt over Saturday's events go away, it was somewhat lessened. He'd even made a follow-up appointment without too much hesitation.

The door to Peter's room was ajar, and Neal stopped just outside, listening. As much as he was curious, and wanted to meet Peter's parents, he really did not want to walk in on a big family scene.

But except for the somewhat muted play by play of what sounded like a baseball game, there were no other voices. Still, he knocked and stuck just his head in first.

No other visitors in sight, and Peter waved him in.

Peter seemed to have regained some of his color. He was sitting up in bed, working on something on the table. As Neal stepped in, he recognized one of the new crossword puzzle books.

"I see Moz got here."

"Yes, Dr. Haversham stopped by," Peter said, setting his pen aside and shaking his head. "Does he always keep a lab coat just laying around with an alias embroidered on it?"

"Special circumstances," Neal replied. "I met him earlier for something, and he said he could get those books to you sooner than I'd be able to."

"Thanks. It does help to have something to do."

"Idle hands. I think you've warned me about that a few times."

"Yeah, maybe more than a few. I'm about ready to tear the damn cast off my leg myself."

Neal pulled a chair close and sat down. "Was the orthopedics doctor here again?"

Peter nodded. "They did more x-rays, and they'll re-evaluate on Friday. But everything seems to be healing the way he hoped. I just still can't put any kind of pressure on the knee."

"And after Friday?"

"Hopefully a different kind of cast, and I can be a little more mobile. There's a rehab unit here, and I guess that's the next step." Peter sighed, closing his eyes. "I just want to see El."

"I know, Peter. How are the Mitchells doing? "

"They were here for a while again today. Doris wasn't crying quite so much, and Alan explained some of the medical jargon in all of the reports and forms. I signed the authorization for the life support."

Neal really wasn't sure what to say to that, so he just nodded.

"El's sister is flying in Friday evening," Peter finally said, breaking the silence.

"I'll call the hotel and arrange a room."

"Neal, I checked out the Wales. It's pretty high end…"

"Peter, I told you, I got a deal. Please, don't worry about it. And it's the closest hotel, so the most convenient for everyone."

"I really appreciate everything you're doing, Neal. If I haven't said that…"

"You have. And there's so much I _can't_ do."

"Did you talk to someone?"

Neal nodded. "I did. And it helped. What about you?"

"Tomorrow morning. I asked everyone not to stop in until after noon."

"Anything I can do?"

"Actually my folks are looking forward to meeting you." Neal figured he must have visibly paled because Peter laughed a little. "Don't tell me that scares you."

"Of course not," Neal said, maybe a little too quickly. "It's just, I don't know if I can get away during the day tomorrow…"

"Actually, I suggested dinner tomorrow night. Karen should be here, and mom said if she eats a little mid-afternoon, and catches a nap, she can wait a little later for dinner."

"Well, I can't guarantee I won't have to work late…"

"Hughes said he'll make every effort to get you out on time tomorrow night."

Neal just stared. "You brought _Hughes_ into this?"

Peter shrugged. "I'm just trying to take care of my family, Neal," he said softly. "All's fair when it comes to that."

Neal had no argument to counter that. "When and where?" he asked.

"I'll let you know," Peter replied. "Now, Mozzie said he found some information, but he wouldn't tell me what."

"He found Bucky and got the new name Loughler is using – Barnaby Wallace."

"That's inconspicuous."

"Subtlety isn't Bucky's strong suit. Hughes has everyone looking for any sign of Barnaby."

"We should checks banks, hotels…"

"Peter, it's covered. That's what White Collar does," Neal reminded him. "And it's your team, they're the best."

Peter leaned back and sighed. "Yeah, they are," he agreed. "You all are."

* * *

By the time Friday came around, Neal had to admit even to himself that he was exhausted. Between the whole nightmare at the park on Saturday, long hours of vigil at the hospital, even longer hours at work trying to find answers, and dealing with distraught family members, he was stretched almost as far as he could go. Of course, he knew he wasn't the only one. He'd noticed Jones and Diana, in particular, hitting the coffee machine much more often than normal today. And apparently he wasn't the only one who had noticed. With no new leads to follow, and alerts out across the country for information on Damon Loughler, or Barnaby Wallace, Hughes had sent the core team home early today, with orders to rest and not come back until Monday morning.

So, naturally, Neal was at the hospital again, not going home to sleep.

He could hear voices coming from Peter's room as he approached, and he slowed as he reached the slightly ajar door. A quick look inside showed no family members, just a nurse and a physician on either side of the bed. He knocked gently on the door, entering when Peter looked up and waved him in.

The reason for the medical personnel was immediately apparent. Instead of the heavy cast that had adorned Peter's right leg all week, now there was a much smaller cast just surrounding his broken ankle. And around his knee…

Peter pointed at the metal contraption. "Like it?"

"Kind of reminds me of a medieval torture device I saw in a museum display one time," Neal replied, moving aside to let the nurse leave the room.

The physician actually smiled at that. "Hopefully no torture," he said. "But plenty of adjustment possibilities."

"And maybe some mobility," Peter said. "Neal, this is Dr. Stoltz. He's the orthopedic surgeon."

Neal shook the other man's proffered hand. "Neal Caffrey."

Peter pointed at the brace again. "Dr. Stoltz was just going to explain this contraption."

"Contrary to what its appearance might suggest, this is actually a very supportive device," Stoltz started. "Obviously, there are two primary injuries to your leg. The ankle fracture was complicated, but we pinned it during surgery, and the x-rays show that it's set perfectly."

"Does the pin stay in?" Peter asked.

"We'll evaluate that down the line," Stoltz replied. "If your ankle needs the stabilizing effect, the pins can remain in indefinitely. But depending on your recovery process we can also remove this particular type."

Peter nodded, taking a deep breath before his next question. "And the knee?"

"There are four ligaments in your knee – the anterior and posterior cruciates, and the medial and lateral collaterals. You sustained extensive damage to both cruciate ligaments, as well as to the medial collateral. The lateral was also torn, but not quite so severely. And there was damage to the patellar tendon as well."

"Was there anything _not_ damaged?" Peter asked.

Stoltz smiled a little at that. "Actually, we found very little damage to the quadriceps tendon. It didn't require surgical repair. The body's natural healing process, combined with the restricted movement in your knee, should take care of it."

"So, what's the prognosis? I mean, athletes tear their ligaments all the time and come back from it, right?"

Stoltz pulled a chair up and sat down, his expression now very serious. "I don't know that any of them damaged all four ligaments," he started. "You also need to understand that you're probably twenty years older than most of them."

"And probably not in as good a shape as most of them," Peter admitted.

"From what I understand, you're pretty active," Stoltz said. "But very few people outside of athletics have as heavy a training routine."

"So, bottom line," Peter said. "Is the leg going to be useless?"

"Fortunately, I'm pretty good at what I do." Stoltz's expression had brightened again. "If you're asking if you'll walk again, the answer is yes. With proper dedication to rehab, probably even without a limp, eventually."

"What about running?" Peter asked, a touch of hesitation in his voice. "There are standards to be approved for field work."

Stoltz hesitated briefly, apparently searching for the right words. "Will you jog again? With the right motivation, and applying yourself to physical therapy, most likely. As for chasing a fleeing suspect down alleys… we'll see. I'll be able to tell you a lot more after a couple weeks of rehab work."

"When can I start that?"

"Well, while I commend your attitude, we can't rush it. Unlike most of those athletes with ligament surgery, we weren't able to do an arthroscopic procedure; the damage was just too great. Invasive surgery takes a lot more out of your body. But based on your progress so far, we'll probably transfer you to the rehab unit sometime next week and at least start on some hydrotherapy."

Peter nodded, considering that. "What about using a wheelchair," he finally asked. "My wife…"

"Yes, I know you're anxious to see her." Stoltz stood up again, pointing at the brace. "Your knee is still swollen right now, which means we can't get the brace fully adjusted yet. Any undue pressure on those ligaments right now could mean more surgery and, honestly, there was barely enough on a couple of them to repair the first time. Taking the cast off should help, and we have you on some medication for it as well. I'll have the resident who's on call this weekend check your knee again tomorrow. If the swelling is down enough that the brace can be adjusted, you can be in a wheelchair for short periods of time."

"Thank you."

"Is there anything else I can answer for you now, Mr. Burke?"

"Will I have to stay inpatient for the rehab portion?"

"For the first part, yes. I can't give you a precise time, but I'd estimate two to three weeks. Then you can be released to outpatient physical therapy. You should, however, give some thought to whether your home can be made accessible. You'll still have a lot of work to do before stairs would be advisable."

"Yeah, I'll think about that. Thanks."

Stoltz nodded, turning toward the door. "I'll check in with you again on Monday."

Neal slid into the vacated chair. "That's some good news, Peter. You might be able to be mobile tomorrow."

"Yeah. That would be good. I need to see El."

"I know, Peter."

Peter sighed, using the bed controls to put the head down a little. "You know, it never seemed to be a problem before to not have a bathroom on the first floor of the house."

"You even have steps to get _into_ the house," Neal pointed out. "Let me check out a few things, see what I can come up with."

"You're _not_ going to pay for a room at the Wales for me while I recover."

"I was thinking more of asking Moz. He has a couple of pretty nice safe houses."

"The last time he let me in one, he said it wouldn't happen again."

"He'd do it for Elizabeth," Neal said softly. "But I have a couple of other ideas too, and we have at least a couple of weeks. You have enough going on. Let me figure this part out."

"You've already done a lot, Neal."

"Peter, you gave me my life back, more than once. I _want_ to do this for you."

"Thank you."

Neal just nodded, and there was an easy silence between them until Peter spoke again.

"Anything new on the case?"

"Not much. One of Mozzie's sources found the license plate from the Malibu in a dumpster, and NYPD identified a chop shop near there. But by the time they raided the place, there wasn't much identifiable left of the car."

"So no help with prints or other evidence."

"One thing – they found a door, with a print under the handle."

"Loughler?"

"It matched. There are alerts out everywhere on his name and his alias, but nothing yet."

"I don't think he's smart enough to disappear for very long on his own."

"Ruiz has people looking into the Russians. Lyovkin might be helping him."

"Good possibility, and the Russians have deep pockets."

"We'll find him, Peter."

"Yeah, you will." Peter sighed, and then changed the subject. "You survived dinner with my family."

"It was actually a pretty good night. You must have said something nice about me at some point."

"Oh, maybe once or twice."

"Seriously, Peter, your parents are great. I can see where you got a lot of your traits."

"Mom always said I got my stubbornness from dad."

"Maybe, but she asks a lot of good questions. I think that's where you get your love of a good mystery from."

"She was a teacher, always looking for ways to challenge her students. I got to be the guinea pig for a lot of experiments."

"So Karen followed in her mother's footsteps."

"She just took it a little farther – all the way to teaching at Princeton."

"Art history, I know. We had a good conversation."

"You must have impressed her. Karen wants me to bring you there to guest lecture."

"I've taught at a university before."

Peter sighed and shook his head. "Do I want to know any more about that?"

"Probably not," Neal admitted. And then he changed the subject. "I made arrangements for a car to take the Mitchells out to LaGuardia to meet Elizabeth's sister tonight."

"Thanks. I really appreciate you taking care of all of these things."

"Like I said before, Peter, there's so much that I _can't_ do. I don't mind doing what I actually _can_."

"I'm going to owe you when this is over."

"Well, maybe you'll need to do a lot of walking for your physical therapy. And you know, museums are a great place to walk."

"I suppose I might need someone to go with me, especially at first."

"It would only make sense, just in case you have trouble."

"You like to go to museums."

"I certainly do."

"And I imagine there are any number of them outside your radius."

Neal nodded, allowing a small smile. "See, we're on the same page."

"Maybe we can work something out," Peter agreed. "But what about today, playing hooky? It's early to be off work."

"We've been putting in some pretty long hours. Hughes let some of us go early to get some rest."

"And yet, you're here instead of home resting."

"I'll get there. I wanted to see if you needed anything first."

Peter gestured down at the brace on his leg. "I need the swelling to go down so I can see El. But as much as you've done this week, I don't think you can help with that."

"No, probably not." Neal reached over, grasping Peter's hand. "But I'll be here tomorrow to see what the doctor says then."

Peter was holding on tight for strength. "I'll need the support," he said. "But you really should go home now. You do look exhausted."

Neal nodded, getting to his feet. "I'm going. I'll see you in the morning."

* * *

_Elizabeth wasn't there…_

He had been trying to convince himself otherwise, to no avail. Her body was there, but not _Elizabeth._

Peter tightened his grip on her hand anyway, needing to feel the physical connection, if nothing else.

Using his other hand for leverage, he shifted himself slightly in the wheelchair. Fortunately, the swelling in his knee had gone down enough that the doctors determined he could be mobile, but the complicated brace was uncomfortable, to say the least.

He'd put up with the discomfort to be here, in this room, though.

He knew the Mitchells had been here this morning. Alan, Doris, and Adrienne had stopped by his room briefly, before leaving for a while to spend some needed family time together. And as much as he liked his sister-in-law, it was good that they hadn't stayed long.

_Adrienne looked so very much like her sister…_

His own brother, Lyle, had called earlier. He was on his way, anticipating a mid-afternoon arrival in New York. It would be good to see Lyle. Like so many other adult siblings he knew, their lives had become busy, and good intentions of seeing each other regularly had morphed into a series of e-mails – mostly forwarding jokes – and the occasional phone call.

_He needed to make it a priority to keep his family closer._

The heart-lung machine whirred softly, and El's chest rose responsively in rhythm.

_She wasn't there._

A flicker of activity on the fetal monitor caught his eye, and he moved his hand to cover El's abdomen. The heart rate was increasing, and he could feel the baby moving, as if waking up, stretching.

For the first time in his visit, he smiled.

"Rebecca," he whispered, leaning closer. "Rebecca Elizabeth Burke, that's your name." His eyes flicked up to El's face, then back to her belly. "Your mom and I, we both loved the name Rebecca. Your mom wanted your middle name to be Allison, and that's a beautiful name. But now I think it'll be Elizabeth, after the most beautiful woman I've ever known, your mom. So beautiful, inside and out. And I'm going to tell you all about her, over and over again. I'll…"

He choked back a sob, and then he couldn't hold it in. He leaned his head over, pillowed by his daughter's gymnastics, and he cried.

Yes, he'd tell Rebecca about her mother… but not today.


	15. Fate

Life fell into something of a pattern, and Peter found himself grateful for that. It meant he didn't have to think too much about what needed to be done each day.

His family and the Mitchells returned to their respective homes and lives. In some ways he missed the support, but in other ways it gave him needed time alone. Ultimately, he was the only one who could figure out how he could move on.

He moved to the rehabilitation unit of the hospital, and into a world of pain like he had never known it could exist. But at least the pain had a purpose now, because it came as he worked to get stronger. At first it was hydrotherapy sessions, strengthening his leg while using the water to keep pressure off of his surgically repaired knee. He worked on recovering his upper body strength too, and within a few days he was able to use a trapeze bar to move himself from bed to wheelchair and back again.

That relative freedom gave him the means to visit El and Rebecca, usually at least twice a day. In between his therapy sessions he'd roll the wheelchair through the tunnel system. He'd hold El's hand, and he told his daughter story after story about her mother.

Sometimes he cried, but more often the memories gave him some small comfort.

Neal stopped by nearly every day, missing only a couple of days when undercover operations kept him away. Peter managed to convince Hughes that _not_ knowing what was going on with those cases was harder on him than briefings would be, and the bureau chief finally acceded. They still refused to bring him case files, but someone – Diana, Jones, Neal, or Hughes himself – would at least give him the highlights of the team's cases each day.

It was Memorial Day weekend when he was finally discharged from inpatient care. He went 'home' – to Riverside Drive, not DeKalb Avenue. June had transformed the back parlor into a fully accessible bedroom; combined with the delivery ramp at the rear entrance, he could come and go on his own, which was a much needed breath of independence again.

Satchmo's unbridled joy at seeing him again had almost been overwhelming. Peter hadn't really realized how much he had missed the small, everyday things, like having a dog depend on him.

He had outpatient therapy visits every weekday. He visited El and Rebecca each time – and each time it was bittersweet. He almost thought he could see and feel Rebecca getting bigger and stronger each day, and every report from the doctors was encouraging when it came to his daughter.

But that meant he could feel the day rushing at him when he would have to let go of El for good.

One thing he did insist on was that, once they set a delivery date for Rebecca, life support would be continued for El for at least a couple of days. He didn't want his daughter growing up celebrating her birthday on the same day he was mourning her mother's loss.

By the second week in June he received clearance to go back to work part-time, no more than four hours a day, and, of course, office only. It felt good to have even a touch of normalcy back in his life, even if his attention span seemed to have suffered dramatically. Maybe it was the pain, or the drugs, or the worry for his daughter…

The anguish over what he had lost.

In his more honest moments, usually late at night when he couldn't sleep, Peter could admit to himself that he was barely holding on, scrabbling to keep hold with a fingernail or two.

Generally, though, he kept up a brave façade to the outside world. Sometimes the mask cracked a bit; he knew, because Neal or someone else close to him would look concerned, and ask if he was all right.

He always said he was.

Maybe he'd learned a trick or two from Neal, because they always seemed to believe him. And maybe he was just trying so hard to convince himself, because _he_ needed to believe that he was all right.

* * *

"Peter, we can stop here for a minute if you want."

Peter shook his head, stubbornly tightening his grip on the handle of the cane. He'd finally been fitted with a cast he could walk with, and he was determined to _walk_ – no matter how much it hurt, and no matter how close he felt to falling over. It was something he could point to as actual verifiable progress.

Assuming he didn't topple over and break something new.

Neal resumed his hovering, just to one side and half a step behind, and Peter bit back a bitter comment. His temper was always on a short fuse these days. Somewhere, deep within, he knew the sacrifices Neal and others had made to help him these last few weeks. He was just so damned tired of _needing_ help.

He was just so damned tired, period.

Neal had scoped out the closest parking, and had even taken it upon himself to get a handicapped tag to use when Peter was with him. But it was still a lengthy walk to El's room in the long term care wing. By the time they got there, Peter was sweating, and his hand nearly slipped off the cane.

Neal stepped ahead, opening the door and Peter all but stumbled inside…

Only to find two of the physicians, Khalil and Simpson, standing next to the bed, along with a nurse who seemed to be documenting for them.

Simpson came forward to meet him, even as Neal pulled a chair up and grabbed Peter's arm, helping him down. And there was something comforting about having the familiar family physician there, even as Peter struggled to get his breathing under control. "Has something happened?" he finally managed to ask.

"You're aware that Elizabeth has been developing bed sores," Simpson started.

Peter nodded. "I was told they'd try turning her more often."

"Yes, that's part of it," Simpson agreed. "But the simple truth is that we can keep the inside of the body working better than the outside."

It took two tries before Peter could get his question out, even in a whisper. "So what are you saying?"

"Physically, Elizabeth's condition is deteriorating."

Peter felt Neal's hand on his shoulder, offering some comfort, as he considered that. "And the baby?"

"Yes, we were just discussing that," Khalil said, joining the conversation. "Judging by size and activity level, the fetus is viable at this point. We have achieved the goal of allowing the fetus to grow to sufficient strength."

"So… it's time."

Khalil and Simpson exchanged a glance before both nodded. "We can deliver the baby at any point now," Khalil confirmed.

Peter nodded slowly, trying to process the news. "Can we… can we wait a few days, so I can get ready?"

"Yes, of course," Simpson replied.

"But please understand, Mr. Burke," Khalil started. "The baby is still premature. She'll have to remain here, in neonatal intensive care, for some time before she can go home."

"I understand," Peter managed to say. "I need to call family…"

Now, it was Simpson's hand on his shoulder. "We have your office checkup on Thursday. We can discuss this then."

Peter nodded in agreement, struggling to control his emotions. He must have succeeded, because the medical personnel took their leave.

He watched as Neal took a moment to step up next to the bed, gently holding Elizabeth's hand for a moment before he leaned in closer. And then Peter could hear his friend's voice, soft and low, singing 'Hush, Little Baby' – a song Neal had admitted was a favorite of his from childhood.

Finally, Neal excused himself to wait outside, and Peter was left alone. And the fact that they were coming to the end left him trembling. He'd known it was coming, of course, but to hear the words, it was time…

_He wasn't ready._

* * *

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times – and later, Peter would realize that it was a week so full of highs and lows that he was left not knowing which way was up.

Rebecca Elizabeth Burke was born on June twenty-third, just a few minutes after eleven o'clock in the morning. It was a warm, sunny day, though that barely registered at the time. Peter spent his time pacing awkwardly in the small waiting room, wanting nothing more than to use his cane to smash something, take out his frustration, instead of making his way back and forth, trying to avoid stumbling over Neal or Diana.

The caesarean procedure went off without a hitch, or so he was told. The medical team stopped by briefly on their way to the NICU, and Peter was able to see his daughter - his tiny, tiny baby girl, who seemed so impossibly small in the closed incubator. He was vaguely aware of being assured that she was doing well for her size, that he shouldn't be alarmed by the tubes and wires, it was normal…

_He wasn't sure what 'normal' meant any more._

When he was finally allowed into the NICU, it was after being scrubbed and gowned and gloved, and even then he had to use the heavy rubberized gloves built into the incubator to reach inside. But Rebecca seemed to know someone was there, and her little fingers would reach for his big gloved hand, and for at least a moment or two he remembered what it was like to smile.

Two days later, they stopped all life support for Elizabeth. He insisted on going in alone, and Christie was the only other person there as she turned off the bypass machine and quietly recorded the time of death. He guessed it was good to have someone he knew do the job, but maybe it didn't really matter. All he really remembered later was that even the artificial rise and fall of his beloved Elizabeth's chest stopped, and any fiction about her still being there at all shattered.

Somewhere in there, he got other news. It might have been the twenty-sixth, maybe the twenty-seventh; he wasn't really sure. But Jones passed on word that Barnaby Wallace – AKA Damon Loughler – had been arrested in a big drug sting in New Jersey. The New York prosecutors were working on getting him extradited to New York for questioning.

The twenty-eighth of June dawned dark and stormy, though he barely registered that at the time. The only meaning that day held for him was that they were burying the love of his life. He was surrounded by friends, family, colleagues, neighbors – and yet, he had never felt so alone. He made it through the service at the church where they had been married, even though neither of them had attended in years. The burial itself was a blur of rain and tears. Neal and Yvonne had coordinated the dinner that followed, and through it all, Peter assured everyone who asked that he was fine.

Just fine.

It was a lie, of course. Between the pain – physical and emotional – and the mind-numbing drugs, the frustratingly slow pace of physical therapy, and the mostly sleepless nights, when his mind had all sorts of time to wander into memories of what he had lost, he was anything _but_ fine.

He said the words anyway, because he was Peter Burke, and he had always been the strong one, there for everyone else.

He was _fine._

The final day of the month, June thirtieth, he would always remember as the beginning of the end. Or maybe just the beginning of a path in life he could never have foreseen for himself.

It was the day he got word that Damon Loughler wanted to talk.

* * *

"Peter, are you sure this is a good idea?"

Peter's gait faltered momentarily, before he resumed walking. "Neal, we've been through this."

"It's a valid question, Peter," Diana said, surprising him. She wasn't usually so quick to back Neal on anything.

Neal picked up the argument. "You don't have to do this at all. And definitely not now. It's only been two days…"

"Since I buried my wife," Peter snapped. "I know." He paused, taking a deep breath. _It wasn't Neal and Diana he was angry with._ "I'm sorry," he continued, more contritely. "I know you're trying to help. But maybe Loughler wants to confess, and maybe there are things I want to say to him that I wouldn't be able to in a courtroom. And Dave Shattuck says he's being transferred back to Riker's tomorrow, so this is the best chance."

He pretended not to see the dubious look Neal and Diana exchanged. And who knew, maybe they were right. But he was here now, and he was going to go through with this. "You can wait out here," he offered, opening the door to the precinct house.

Except he knew without looking that they were both following him as he walked inside.

Peter checked in at the front desk, gave his name and Shattuck's, and was directed down a corridor to a set of stairs leading to a lower floor. The stairs were still a bit of a challenge, though he was getting better with the cane. Following his directions, he turned right, right again, and then left, finally coming to another desk just outside a set of barred doors.

"Peter Burke," he said, showing his badge to the officer seated there. "Captain Shattuck arranged for me to see a prisoner."

The young female officer studied the ID and nodded. "The Captain just called and said he's on the way down. He asked for you to wait until he got here."

Peter could feel his jaw clenching, but arguing with the officer who was just doing her job wouldn't help. And if Dave had just called, it couldn't be too much longer.

He stepped off to the side, still flanked by Neal and Diana. Fortunately, they seemed to have dropped the argument that he should abandon this task.

_They were probably right, and this visit wouldn't accomplish anything. And maybe it was too soon after El's funeral. But this was the man who had caused that funeral, and who had left him with a prematurely born daughter struggling in neonatal intensive care. A daughter who would grow up without her mother._

He needed to face the monster.

Footsteps were coming toward them, and he looked over to see his friend coming down the hall. He'd met Dave Shattuck on one of his first cases in New York. The young officer had been on the job for three years at the time, and Peter vividly remembered the crime scene advice from Shattuck that had been their first introduction.

'_If you're going to hurl, don't do it on the body.'_

It was good advice, the kind of practical thing that wasn't stressed at Quantico. Peter had – barely – been able to suppress the nauseating feeling in his gut at seeing and smelling the mutilated body of a suspected drug runner.

During those first few years, it seemed that their paths crossed frequently on cases where both the FBI and the local police responded. And at some point, he and Shattuck had wound up in a bar after one of those cases, drinking too much beer as they shared war stories. From there a strong friendship had grown. Shattuck rose in rank with the NYPD, Peter at the Bureau, and they still got together for beer and war stories from time to time.

Shattuck stopped in front of them, overhead lights glinting off of his eyeglasses. "Peter, are you _sure_ you want to do this?" he asked softly.

"Loughler said he wanted to see me," Peter replied, not really answering the question.

"But we're in charge, not the Loughlers of the world."

Peter nodded slowly, then pointed at the barred door. "I'm sure."

Shattuck gave in and gestured to the officer, who got up and opened a small locker behind her. "No guns allowed back in holding," Dave explained. "You'll need to leave yours here, Peter, and you too, Agent Berrigan, if you're going inside."

Peter drew his weapon from the holster, verified the safety was on, and put it inside. He took the locker key he was handed, and then waited while Diana followed the same procedure.

When they were done, the officer sat down behind the desk again and pushed a button hidden underneath, the door buzzed, a lock released, and they were let into the holding area.

Some barred cells could be seen straight ahead, but Shattuck gestured for them to turn to the right, down a shorter hall. Then he opened the door to a small interrogation room. "I'll have Loughler brought in."

Peter started to step inside, but a hand on his arm stopped him. "Peter, do you want someone with you?" Diana asked.

_Did he…_ He finally shook his head. "No, that's fine," he whispered, stepping inside.

_Some things you just had to do alone._

* * *

Neal watched as Peter stepped into the interrogation room, looking around briefly before leaning his cane against the back wall and taking a seat on one of the two chairs. It didn't seem right, leaving Peter alone with this, but he hated to argue too, after everything his friend had been through.

"You can watch everything from the observation room," Shattuck said, opening another door.

Neal followed Diana inside. They were behind the glass wall that would appear mirrored on the other side. But they had a clear view into the room. There wasn't much to see yet – just the two chairs, a small table…

And Peter.

This had been such a hard time for his friend. And the last few days, especially, had to have been overwhelming. They had been for Neal, and he wasn't the one who had to both experience the breathtaking joy of seeing his daughter born, and then turn around to pull the plug on his beloved wife and bury her.

Add in the continued recovery from his own injuries, and the fact that the other man was still functioning was pretty damn amazing.

He could remember sitting in an interrogation room across from Peter, back when he was first arrested. But the atmosphere was a little different. For one thing, the FBI had bigger rooms. For another, the mood had been, not exactly light-hearted, but respectful. It had been challenging, taking Peter's questions, parrying them with his own non-answers.

There was nothing light-hearted about the mood here today.

He glanced over at Diana, who was staring intently through the glass. "Do you think he's ready for this?"

She shook her head. "No. But what can we do?"

"It's his decision," Neal admitted.

"We came here with him, we offered to go in the room with him." Diana sighed in resignation. "I guess we just have to be here when he's done."

The door opened and Shattuck walked in, coming up to stand behind them. "How's Peter really doing?"

Neal shrugged. "He has a newborn daughter he can't actually touch because she's premature and her immune system is too weak. So all he can do is sit outside the incubator and touch her through the gloves."

"And he just buried his wife two days ago," Diana added. "We tried to talk him out of doing this."

"I've known Peter a lot longer than either of you have," Shattuck said. "He can be a bit stubborn."

"I think he's hoping for some closure," Neal said. "Why Loughler would still be so angry after all these years."

Shattuck pointed through the glass at the door to the interrogation room, which was slowly opening. "Well, I hope he gets some answers. Here we go."

* * *

Peter looked up as the door opened, trying to control his breathing. Maybe Neal and Diana were right, and he wasn't ready for this. He was so angry, so exhausted, so hurt…

Two police officers were leading Damon Loughler into the room. He was handcuffed, the cuffs fastened to chains around his waist. His feet were shackled, causing him to move with a shuffling gait. He apparently hadn't shaved for a few days, at least, as evidenced by the scruffy beard on his chin.

But his eyes…

Loughler's eyes were looking right at him, _through_ him. The gaze was almost frightening in its intensity.

The officers dropped Loughler onto the other chair, fastening his chained hands to a heavy u-shaped link bolted to the table.

Then the officers left, and he was alone with Loughler.

Alone with the man who had killed El…

And Loughler was grinning.

His hands were shaking, and he balled them into fists at his sides. "Why?" he managed to ask, his voice a hoarse whisper.

And Loughler laughed.

* * *

"Oh, this isn't good," Neal said, mostly to himself, as he watched Peter's reaction to Damon Loughler.

Apparently he said he loud enough for Diana to hear, because she nodded. "No, it's not. Why is he laughing?"

Neal didn't have an answer for that. He just stepped closer to the glass, willing Peter to say enough is enough, to get out of there.

_Definitely nothing like his first interrogation encounter with Peter…_

* * *

"You ruined my life!"

"You were smuggling in young girls, selling them into prostitution. I did my job and arrested you before you could ruin any more of their lives."

"You really think you made a difference in the action?"

"I stopped _you_."

"Makes you feel like a big man? You get off on using that badge and gun?"

"I get scum like you off of the streets."

"I did twelve years of hard time."

"From what I understand, you mostly made the time hard yourself. And you did an extra two years because you couldn't stay out of trouble."

"And it cost me everything!"

"You did the crime, you got caught, and you went to prison. That's called justice."

"You took away my wife, my son!"

"I never did anything to _your_ family. If they left you, it was just good sense on their part. I didn't do it."

* * *

Neal turned to Diana, shaking his head. "This is getting too personal. We need to get him out of there."

She nodded, and in turn looked at Shattuck. "Dave?"

Shattuck was already reaching for the phone on the wall. "I'll get someone to come and take Loughler back to his cell."

* * *

"It's been over twelve years, and there were dozens of officers on that raid. Why me?"

"Ain't none of them others who put the cuffs on me."

"That's what all of this was about? Handcuffs? I've put handcuffs on hundreds of suspects, including the man who's now my partner!"

"Guess he's an idiot then."

"Far from it."

"Then you're the idiot for trusting him."

"This was about handcuffs. And twelve years later…"

"It was about revenge!"

"Because you went to prison."

"Because I lost my wife and son, you bastard!"

"So you blamed me, and thought you'd take my wife?"

"I wasn't aiming for the bitch. I wanted _you_!"

"I don't care. You killed my wife!"

"Got you good though, didn't I? Gotta use a cane? Bet you won't be handcuffing anyone else for a while."

"Seeing you locked up is all that matters."

"That's gonna make you feel all good inside? Even with the bitch dead?"

"Don't you dare call my wife that."

"What, a bitch?"

"Loughler…"

"I just call 'em like I see 'em."

"I'm warning you…"

"Warning me about what? Can't take the truth that she was nothing but a bitch?"

"Stop it!"


	16. The Fall

"No. No, no, no, no, no…" Neal turned to Diana, his voice desperate. "We have to get Peter out of there."

He saw her nod, started toward the door, and then froze at the scene in the next room.

Loughler had leaned as far across the table as his chained hands would allow, and he was grinning. "I was aiming for you pig. But you know what? This way is better."

Peter opened his mouth, but no words came out. And he looked absolutely stricken.

Loughler was positively leering now. "I'm glad I got the bitch instead."

Peter's hands fisted, and he was visibly trembling. "Loughler…"

"Yeah, I'm glad the bitch got it. I'm glad she's dead. Because that's way better…"

Loughler tossed his head back and began to laugh. At the same moment, Peter lunged forward, and that finally broke the spell that had been holding Neal in place.

He pulled the door open, felt Diana right behind him. It was only a few feet to the door to the interrogation room. A couple of officers were running in from the other direction but Neal reached the door first, pushed it open, and froze in his tracks at the sight that greeted his eyes.

Peter was on his feet, his hands on Loughler's head, banging it into the table. There was already so much blood…

He jumped forward, reaching for Peter's arm. "Peter…"

He wasn't at all ready for the agent to turn on him, his face a picture of blind rage. And he definitely wasn't ready for the left hook that sent him falling to the floor.

It all seemed to be happening in slow motion now. Peter slammed Loughler's head into the table again, and again. Diana was there, and Shattuck, trying to stop the attack. The two officers from the hall came in, and finally by virtue of sheer superiority in numbers they were able to pull Peter away.

Neal could only watch, stunned, as Peter was forced to his knees, his hands pulled behind his back. And then there was a hand on his shoulder. "Neal?"

He tore his eyes away from the sight of Peter's shoulders dropping in defeat, and shaking with sobs. Diana was leaning over him, her fingers brushing hair away from his temple.

Her fingers were coming away bloody. "Are you all right?" she asked.

He nodded, accepting her hand to get to his feet. Then he made the mistake of looking over toward Loughler, and the sight of all the blood there made him sway unsteadily. Fortunately, Diana tightened her grip on his arm and he managed to stay upright.

He became aware of an alarm sounding in the background, and more police officers were crowding into the small room. One of them reached a gloved hand gingerly through the blood, feeling for a pulse on Loughler's neck, before looking up and slowly shaking his head.

"No." Neal looked over at Diana, and he figured the shocked look on her face was probably reflected on his own as well.

She just shook her head, unable to even say anything.

Near the door, two police officers had pulled Peter to his feet, and one was reading him his rights. Then they started toward the hall.

That finally got Neal to move. "Peter."

He barely recognized the man who turned toward him. Peter's eyes were vacant, haunted, his face paler even than right after the crash. "It was when he laughed," Peter said, his voice a hoarse whisper. "He killed El, and he laughed…"

"Peter, don't say anything else," Diana warned.

"Right," Neal agreed. "I'm going to get you a lawyer. Don't say anything else until then, all right?"

For a long moment, he wasn't sure if Peter was even hearing or comprehending the words. But then the other man nodded slowly, his eyes finally finding some focus on the side of Neal's face. "I did that?"

"It doesn't matter," Neal said quickly. "Just please, Peter, don't say anything else until your lawyer gets here."

Peter finally nodded again, and then he was led out of the room.

Neal watched as his friend disappeared down the hallway, still feeling stunned. From the look on Diana's face, he figured she was feeling the same way.

"Do you know if he has a lawyer?" she asked.

"I've never heard him mention a criminal lawyer. He needs a specialist."

"I can ask the legal department at the Bureau, I guess."

"Diana, they're not going to take on a criminal defense case like this."

"No, probably not. Maybe they can refer me to someone though. Or Jones. He has a law degree. Maybe he has someone…"

"I'll find Peter a good lawyer," Neal said. "But you probably do need to talk to Jones, and Hughes."

"I don't even know what to tell them," Diana said. Neal thought it was one of only a very few times he'd heard her voice shake.

And for one of only a very few times in his adult life, Neal had no idea what to say.

* * *

Peter stumbled along, an officer tightly gripping each arm. Fortunately, they didn't have far to go. A third officer opened a cell door, and he was pushed, gently but firmly, inside.

Whatever force had given him the energy to do what he had just done to Loughler had abandoned him, and he all but fell onto the narrow, hard bunk.

The door clanged shut, and he was alone.

That wouldn't last, he knew. Soon there would be people there, people wanting to talk about what had happened.

He should probably figure that out himself.

* * *

The video played out on the large screen at the front of the room. Jones had muted the video as soon as Peter lunged for Loughler, so the carnage was mercifully silent. And none of the people around the table broke that silence.

They watched as their friend, colleague, and mentor killed another man in cold blood.

"My god," Hughes finally said softly, gesturing to Jones to stop the replay. When the screen went blank, the senior agent took a moment to compose himself. "How did this happen?"

It might have been meant as a rhetorical question, but Diana spoke up first. "Loughler asked for a meeting with Peter."

"Peter was hoping he might confess," Neal added, still looking shell-shocked. "I wanted to go with him. I should have…"

"We both offered to," Diana interjected. "Peter said he had to do it alone."

Hughes gestured toward the now-blank screen. "After seeing that… I don't think there's anything we can do for him."

"I got him a lawyer," Neal said. "The police aren't letting anyone else talk to him right now."

"He's not really in any shape to talk to anyone," Jones suggested.

Neal shook his head. "But he shouldn't be alone! I shouldn't have let him go in there alone."

"It wasn't your fault," Hughes said. "Or yours," he added, looking at Diana. "We all let him tell us he was fine, and we tried to believe it, because he's Peter Burke, and he's always been strong."

"But even the strongest can break," Neal whispered. "What happens now?"

No one at the table had an answer.

* * *

"Mr. Burke? I'm Janine Wexler."

Peter looked up from his position at the table, studying his visitor. She was probably close to his age, dark reddish-brown hair framing her face in a short bob. A hint of grey touched her temples, partially hidden by the scrollwork bows of her eyeglasses. "Ms. Wexler. I'd stand, but…" He lifted his chained hands, fastened to the table.

She set a briefcase on the table and sat down across from him. "Understood."

"I assume you're the attorney Neal said he was sending."

She started pulling some documents out, laying them in front of her. "I am."

Peter took a closer look. "I'm sorry, you look familiar. Have we met?"

Wexler smiled at that. "In a way. I was Mr. Caffrey's attorney. I cross examined you."

"Quite effectively, as I recall now."

"Not quite effective enough. My client was convicted."

"On one count. He was acquitted on several others."

"My client considered the outcome acceptable, under the circumstances." Wexler pushed the briefcase aside, looking straight at Peter. "Mr. Caffrey did engage my services. But if my prior representation of him is a problem…"

"It's not. Did he mention he's been my partner for three years?"

"He did. And, off the record, I'm glad. I always thought he had a lot of potential."

"He does." Peter sighed, leaning back. "So where do we start?"

"I already started. I talked to the District Attorney."

"You must have been confident I'd say yes."

"I'm always confident, Mr. Burke. It's what makes me a good attorney."

"Understood. Are they pushing for murder one?"

"Well, they're making noise about it." She paused, pen poised over a legal pad. "Did you go there with the intent to kill Damon Loughler?"

Peter shook his head slowly. "No. I went there because he said he wanted to talk. I was… I was hoping he'd tell me why he killed my wife." His voice broke off, until he was almost whispering those last few words.

"Well, let's talk about what happened." She clicked the pen open, pulled the pad closer. "They've scheduled an arraignment for this afternoon. Like I said, they're making noise about murder one, but let's see what we've got to talk them down. Then maybe we'll be able to get bail."

* * *

The house was quiet, dark, empty. After being gone for so long, it almost seemed foreign. And yet, it was… home.

At least for the moment.

Peter shut the door behind him and moved to the front window, opening the drapes to shake some of the gloom out. The sunlight highlighted the thin layer of dust that had accumulated on pretty much everything. Of course, it had been nearly two months since anyone had been here, except for the quick stops Neal had made now and then to pick something up.

He spent a few minutes cleaning things out of the refrigerator, though it looked like Neal might have already done some of that. There was, at least, no milk to smell weeks out of date, no produce turning to a goopy brown soup, and nothing that looked like a science experiment gone astray.

He almost reached for a beer, but stopped. There would probably be a better time for that later.

Besides, he was just stalling now.

He finally went to the stairs, and made his way slowly up to the second floor. He stopped first in the doorway of the nursery, remembering the loving care that had gone into the decorating and furnishing. It would be a good place for Rebecca.

And then he limped into the bedroom, leaning heavily against the door jamb when the sense of Elizabeth was just too overwhelming. She was everywhere – from the pattern in the bed covering she had picked out, to the curtains she had convinced him he loved. It was her hand that had done most of the decorating; he'd simply put the nails where she indicated, or lifted the heaviest items into place. And, of course, there were photos, mementos…

Normally at this time of year he'd be getting ready for Independence Day. The neighborhood held a block party each year on the holiday. Everyone brought their grills out to the street, potluck dishes were passed around, children soaked each other with squirt guns and water balloons, while the adults drank beer or wine and pontificated about deep topics like baseball and the perfect hot dog.

This year, he'd spend the holiday ensconced in the house, sorting out El's things.

It had taken a couple of days, but Janine Wexler had successfully gotten him released on bail, but he was well aware that status could change at any time. She was actually due to stop by later in the afternoon to further discuss his case.

And it's not like he could go anywhere, a fact reinforced by a glance down at his ankle. The leg of his jeans had ridden up over the tracker, the green light flashing.

_He had a new appreciation for what Neal had mentioned on occasion – namely, that even the relative freedom of the anklet could feel constricting._

He had an exemption each morning to go to the hospital for his therapy appointment, and then spend some time in the NICU with Rebecca. Other than that, he was expected to be at home.

It was tempting to just go back downstairs and start drinking while he waited. But in the end he shook off that thought and went to the closet, starting to pull things out. There were a few items he hesitated over, for sentimental reasons. Most, however, he began to pile on the bed. He'd get some bags or boxes later, and pack things up.

It would be good to keep busy.

* * *

Peter set the coffee cup down on the table and sat down. "So, how bad does it look?"

Janine Wexler slid a folder over toward him. "The district attorney has backed off of the premeditated murder charge."

Peter was scanning the file. "First degree manslaughter."

"If convicted, sentencing guidelines call for five to twenty-five years."

"Are they offering a deal?"

Janine nodded. "They've put ten years, and a medium security facility on the table."

The words felt like a ten-ton weight around his neck, dragging him down, and Peter swallowed hard a few times before he could get a question out. "What do you think?"

Janine sighed, setting her glasses on the table and rubbing her temples. "I think you were under a huge strain, and you snapped. We can present your story at trial, everything that had happened to you, your wife, your daughter. It's a very compelling tale, the jury will be sympathetic."

Peter sipped at his coffee, trying to steady himself. "I sense a 'but' in there."

"The prosecution has the video of what happened in that interrogation room."

"And there's no legal argument to exclude it."

"As a law enforcement agent who has interrogated more than a few people yourself, it would be difficult to argue that you had no knowledge that the encounter would be recorded."

Peter nodded. "I knew."

Janine leaned toward him. "The thing is, Peter, as much as the jury might sympathize with your story, the prosecution will argue that you were there as an FBI agent, under color of authority. Your badge is clearly visible on your belt in the video, and they will point out that, as a law enforcement professional, with your years of training and experience, you are held to a higher standard."

"A standard I obviously failed to uphold."

"Are you prepared to take the stand and testify that you didn't know what you were doing? That you lost all rational thought?"

Peter considered that for a moment, and then slowly shook his head. "No. I knew it was wrong, and that I should stop. I just… couldn't. Hell, I didn't want to. I even hit Neal when he tried to stop me."

"Well, Neal has refused to press charges for that, despite some pressure from the district attorney's office."

"He can be stubborn."

"Apparently he can be a good friend."

"Yeah, the best." Peter sighed, and finally gave up on trying to sip his coffee when his hand shook too much to raise the cup. "Are you recommending that we deal?"

"What Loughler is alleged to have done is horrific – and there's a good argument that he confessed on that tape. I would be very confident taking this case to trial if you had hit him once, even if it killed him." She leaned back, taking a deep breath. "But what the jury is going to see is a man who was shackled and chained in place. And they're going to see you smash a defenseless man's head into the table twelve times. Even if you could testify that you didn't know what you were doing…"

"Which I can't. I won't lie."

"I told you before that I'm a good attorney. If you want your day before the jury, I will be the most forceful advocate possible. But based on experience, I have to honestly say I don't like our odds."

"That's direct."

"Like you, I prefer not to lie. Peter, you're my client. I will represent you to the best of my abilities. We have a case, but…"

"Not a strong one."

"No."

"I appreciate the honesty." Peter stared out the back window for a long moment, and then turned back to his lawyer. "So, ten years?"

"Under New York law, assuming good behavior, you'd be eligible for parole after serving eighty-five percent of the time."

"Any chance of negotiating them down a little?"

"They started at fifteen. I said I wouldn't even take anything more than ten to you. If you tell me to negotiate, I'll see what I can do."

"Well, since your client can't help his own case, I don't see any reason to drag this out. It doesn't help anyone, and if I'm not actually in custody, I don't even get credit for this time. See if they'll come down any on the sentence – and if they'll stipulate the Cayuga facility."

"Why Cayuga?"

"It's not too far from Ithaca. My parents are there, and they're not getting younger."

"All right." Janine started to repack her briefcase. "It's after hours now, and they're closed tomorrow for the holiday. I'll get an appointment for the day after and see what I can do."

Peter nodded. "Good. Oh, there's one more thing."

"What is it?"

"I know your specialty is criminal defense. Do you know a good civil law attorney – real estate, child custody, things like that?"

"I do. His name is Paul Krenz. I'll ask him to give you a call."

"I appreciate that."

"Now, do you need anything else? I know you haven't been here for a while."

"Neal's stopping by later with some groceries. I'll be fine."

"Well, you have my phone number if anything comes up."

Peter stood up as she did, balancing on his good leg. "You know, we've never discussed what I'll owe you."

Her smile as she turned toward the door was small, measured. "Oh, my fee has been taken care of," she said. "You don't owe me anything."


	17. Taking Care of Business

Neal handed over money for the cab fare and opened the door, gathering up the bags from the seat next to him. The delivery of groceries to DeKalb Avenue every couple of days was something he could handle. Not that Peter seemed very interested in eating, or even participating in selecting the food items. But he had to eat, so Neal had done his best to pick things that would tempt his friend.

With on-street parking almost full on the block, and another car already partially blocking the remaining driving lane, the cab had stopped two houses down. Just as Neal got the bags under control, he looked up to see someone leaving the Burke home. Tall, balding, wearing a suit – it wasn't anyone Neal recognized. The briefcase suggested a business professional of some sort.

Well, maybe Peter would tell him.

He managed to work the gate latch without spilling anything out of the bags, and then he climbed the steps. He was just going to ring the bell when the door opened, and Peter appeared in the doorway.

"Saw you coming," the older man said, reaching to take a couple of the bags. "Didn't think you'd be here this early."

"Well, we wrapped up the Pearson case, and there wasn't much sense starting something new at that point in the day." With one hand now free, Neal closed the door behind him and trailed along to the kitchen. "Looked like I almost interrupted something," he said, as casually as he could. _Better than blurting out a question about the mystery guest…_

"Paul Krenz," Peter said, peeking into the bags. "He's a lawyer."

"Sorry, didn't Janine work out?"

"Oh, she's still my lawyer for the criminal case. But I had a few other matters to take care of. She recommended Paul."

Neal handed some frozen items to Peter, watching as they got stowed away in the freezer. "Anything I can help with?"

"Actually, there is. Let's get the groceries taken care of – is that Indian food I smell?"

"Good nose." Neal grabbed the last bag – the one with the takeout food. "Mind some company for dinner?" Peter hadn't wanted people around much these last few days, but that didn't mean Neal was going to quit trying.

"Yeah, sounds good. I need to talk to you about a couple of things."

"All right." Neal was kind of glad his back was turned, because he hadn't been able to hide his surprise. Hopefully this was a sign that Peter was getting things pulled together again.

And, of course, he was dying to know what was going on.

Peter set out some plates and flatware, Neal opened the bottle of wine he had brought, and together they unpacked the food. It only took a couple of minutes to get everything ready, and they sat down at the table.

"So, what's up?" Neal asked.

Peter finished ladling some of the chicken curry onto his plate and reached for the naan. "After we eat," he said.

Neal stifled his urge to argue and added some rice to his own plate. "That works," he said, and it even sounded convincing.

The look Peter gave him clearly said that the other man wasn't convinced for a moment that Neal was all right with the delay, but neither of them said anything.

They ate mostly in silence. Peter asked a few quick questions about the Pearson case, and Neal gave brief replies. Even though nothing had been done officially, and they certainly hadn't _talked_ about it, they both understood that any chance of Peter actually returning to the Bureau stood somewhere between slim and none. Technically, he wasn't authorized for the information.

Not that Neal believed much in technicalities, of course.

In due time they finished their meal, cleared the table, loaded the dishwasher, put away the leftovers, refilled their glasses…

And there was no more reason not to talk.

Neal started the conversation. "So, what did you want to talk about?"

"My preliminary hearing is scheduled for Thursday of next week."

"That's fast. I'm sure Janine can get it pushed back."

"Won't be necessary. There's no reason to put this off."

Neal leaned forward, concerned. "Peter, what's going on?"

"The district attorney has offered a plea deal, and I'm taking it."

"What? No, Peter…"

"Neal, listen, please." Peter took a long gulp of wine, stared at his hands for a moment, and then looked up again. "I'm guilty, Neal. Guilty of exactly what I've told you not to do – seeking revenge instead of justice."

"No. It was heat of the moment."

"Once or twice might have been heat of the moment," Peter said, so softly that Neal had to lean forward to hear him. "Twelve times? No. I knew it was wrong, knew I should stop, and I didn't. And I can't get on the stand and lie about that."

"Peter…"

"They're offering manslaughter one," Peter continued. "Eight and a half years, so I could be out in a little over seven."

"Seven…" Neal shook his head. "No. That's crazy. Look, Janine did a really good job for me, but if you want me to find you a different lawyer…"

"No, she's an excellent attorney. We've talked, a lot. About what the law says, and the standard of behavior demanded. This is the right thing to do, and there's no reason to drag it out, make everyone go through a trial."

"No reason? Peter, there's always a chance with a jury!"

"Like I said, I won't lie on the stand. Without that, I'd be found guilty, and quite possibly wind up in prison longer."

"What about Rebecca?"

Peter swallowed hard, sucking in a deep breath before he could answer. "I am thinking about her, Neal. I'll miss part of her life, I know that. But when she's old enough, she'll know that her father took responsibility for what he did, and I hope that will help."

Neal was shaking his head, trying to organize his thoughts. "Peter, Mozzie and I can get you out of the country. A clean ID, enough money to start over. Just give me a few days…"

Peter held up his hand, shaking his head. "I appreciate the thought. But I can't."

Neal sank back in his chair. "I guess I knew that," he admitted. "But I had to try."

Peter nodded. "I know, and I appreciate the thought. There is something I'm going to ask you to do though, and it's important."

"Of course, whatever you need."

But when Peter slid a form across the table to him, and he started to read it, Neal's eyes went wide. "No, Peter, not this. You can't be serious."

"Never been more serious about anything."

Neal shoved the paper to one side, shaking his head. "Then maybe your lawyer should think about an insanity defense. I think this would be good evidence."

"I'm sane, Neal, and I know what I'm asking."

Neal picked up the form again. "How can you seriously want _me_ to be Rebecca's guardian? What about your family, or the Mitchells?"

"My parents, and El's, they're too old to start over with an infant. And Adrienne, Lyle, Karen… none of them are going to move here to the city." Peter paused, his eyes fixed on a photo of Elizabeth displayed on the bookshelf. "It was something we talked about, El and me. We wanted our daughter to be raised here, with all of the culture and opportunity. I don't know anyone else who appreciates New York more than you."

"I'm a convicted felon, on probation. What if I screw up?"

"Are you planning to?"

"No! But that doesn't mean there isn't still temptation."

Peter's smile was small, knowing. "The Neal Caffrey I know can do pretty much anything he sets his mind to."

"I don't know anything about raising a child, and you know I don't have the best personal experience to fall back on. What if… what if I make a mistake?"

Peter's reply was to laugh.

"Oh, it's funny that I might screw up with Rebecca?"

"No, it's funny that everyone I know wonders the same thing." Peter poured more wine into their glasses and continued. "I remember when Lyle and his wife were having their first child. He asked my mom the same thing. And you know what she told him? She said you can read all the parenting books you want, check all the experts, but there's one thing you can count on. The child hasn't read those books, and will do things that no one can predict. You just have to roll with it."

"Roll with it."

"No one I know adapts better than Neal Caffrey."

Neal rolled his eyes and sipped at his wine. "Flattery is not going to convince me I can do this." He set his glass down, staring across the table. "A con or a man? Is this part of a plot to force me to choose?"

"Are you saying you haven't already chosen?" Peter countered.

"Oh, I've made my choice," Neal conceded. "But that doesn't mean I'm ready to raise a child."

"You know, I think you need to look at this a different way."

"Oh, and what way would that be?"

"Well, for all the times you've complained that I didn't trust you, I'm showing you now that I do. I'm trusting you with the most important thing left in my life."

Neal just stared silently for a long moment. "That's not fair," he finally said.

"Life doesn't always work out the way we think is fair," Peter said softly.

That statement had way too much meaning to their current circumstances for Neal to argue any further. "You're sure you want me to do this."

"I am. I've had a lot of time to think about these things the last few days."

Neal finally sighed, capitulating. "I can talk to June…"

"Do you have a dollar?"

"What?"

"A dollar. Do you have one?"

Too puzzled to even come up with an argument, Neal fished in his pocket, pulled out a money clip, and extracted a dollar bill…

Which Peter promptly snatched from his hand, even as he pushed another form toward Neal. "Now sign this."

"I'm almost afraid to look," Neal muttered.

"You just bought a house," Peter said as he pocketed the money.

"I what?"

"Sign the document and the house is yours," Peter explained, and then he tapped a thick envelope next to him on the table. "There are some tax consequences – the fair market value of the house is a little more than a dollar, after all. But I have it all worked out. The money from my bank accounts, the 401K accounts, and El's life insurance settlement, all in a trust for Rebecca. You're the trustee, and the terms allow using the money to keep and maintain her home."

Neal was still staring at the unsigned document. "No, this is your house."

"Not any more – though I am hoping you'll let me stay until next week."

"Peter…"

"Neal, it's more than just you now. The nursery is already set up. And Satchmo's got his yard, assuming you'll agree to take care of him."

"Of course Satch can stay – _if_ I do this. But…" Neal paused, taking a deep breath – and grabbing a moment to try and get his bearings. "I mean, me, a homeowner?"

"It's a nice neighborhood," Peter offered.

"Well, maybe when armed robbers aren't moving in a few houses down."

"That was an anomaly. I'll leave you all my intel on the neighbors."

"That's really not the point."

"I know. The thing is, the house is legally yours, once you sign that. If you want to live somewhere else, you can sell this place, use the money to go somewhere else."

"Maybe I need _my_ sanity tested," Neal muttered, even as he scribbled his name on the form where Peter indicated.

"There is one more thing," Peter said.

"I am, quite literally, afraid to ask what it is," Neal admitted.

"Well, this one is probably easier than the first two."

"Hit me with it."

"Janine is taking care of setting up a prison account for me, but I can only put a limited amount of money in at a time. I was hoping…"

"Your account will never go empty, Peter. I promise."

"Thanks. I understand it can be pretty important."

"Oh, believe me, you will definitely need canteen money to survive."

"Well, hopefully Cayuga has good variety."

"Cayuga? That's where you're going?"

"It is."

"Where is that?"

"Upstate New York , in Moravia . It's part of my plea deal."

"What's special about Cayuga?"

"Moravia isn't too far from Ithaca. If my parents don't disown me, I figured it would be easier for them to visit."

"Makes sense." Neal considered that for a moment before continuing. "Make sure you put me on your visitor list."

Peter raised an eyebrow at that one. "I think Moravia might be a little out of your radius, Neal."

Neal just shrugged. "I'll figure it out. I can always bribe an agent."

"Neal…"

"What? Is visiting Moravia inherently illegal?"

"Not generally, no," Peter had to admit.

"Then offering someone an _incentive_ to go there isn't a crime."

"Incentive sounds better than bribe."

"Semantics. You'll put me on your list?"

"I will."

"Once Rebecca is healthy enough to travel I can bring her…"

"No."

"Peter?"

Peter shook his head, staring straight at Neal. "You will not bring her to Cayuga. I don't want her there."

"Peter…"

"Not negotiable, Neal."

Neal took a moment to plan a strategy. "Just hear me out, all right? As someone who's been there, take my word – visits are sometimes all that gets you through. If Kate hadn't come nearly every week…" He paused, with a deep, shuddering breath. "I don't know how I would have made it."

"I do understand that, Neal. I'm sure I'll understand it even better over the next seven years. That's why I'm hoping my parents will come; and you, if it's legal. But that's not how I want my daughter to know me. You need to promise me, Neal."

Neal stared across the table, looking for any sign of weakness, but coming up empty. "I don't concede that not seeing your daughter for her first seven years is the way to go," he finally said. "And I will continue to try and persuade you to change your mind. But, I will agree not to bring Rebecca there until you agree."

Peter nodded. "I can live with that. But I don't think I'll change my mind."

"I can be persuasive."

"I can be stubborn."

"Well, that's true," Neal agreed. "But stubborn isn't always right."

"I've given this a lot of thought," Peter said. "I will grant, however, that this has not been my best couple of months."

"I'll start mustering my arguments."

"Well, that's something for me to look forward to." And Peter even managed a small smile as he said it.

"Arguing with me?"

"You challenge me."

Neal leaned back in his chair, swirling the wine in his glass. "A little too challenging at times?"

"Yeah, that might be true," Peter agreed. "But in the end, I think we've come out all right."

"We have," Neal said. "And even though I still think you have good grounds for an insanity defense, if you really want me to do this, I will."

"Can you come with me to the hospital tomorrow morning? There's some paperwork to file there. And as Rebecca's guardian, you'll be able to go into the NICU."

"Of course." Neal drained his wine and set the glass back on the table. "I'm almost afraid to ask, but is there anything else you need?"

"Actually, are you available this weekend at all?"

"I feel like I should ask why before answering."

"I've been sorting things, packing up some things to toss out or donate. But with this," Peter paused, gesturing at his bad leg. "It's a little hard to get things down the stairs."

Neal sighed in relief. "Manual labor? _That_ I can handle."

* * *

"State of New York versus Peter Lowell Burke. All rise for the honorable Judge Marcus Kern."

Peter pushed himself awkwardly to his feet, though in this case he figured his shaky stance was less about the bulky brace on his leg and more about the enormity of what he was about to do. He was only vaguely aware of a black-robed figure walking to the desk at the front and sitting down.

_At least Janine had managed to get his case on the afternoon docket. He'd been able to make one final visit to the hospital, to Rebecca…_

The strike of the gavel got his attention back to the courtroom. "Be seated."

Peter dropped back onto his chair, but he didn't pull it closer to the table. He'd have to stand again soon enough.

The judge was consulting the documents in front of him. "This is a preliminary hearing on a First Degree Manslaughter charge. Parties please identify."

"Mathias Williams for the State, Judge Kern."

"Janine Wexler for the defense, Your Honor."

Kern looked up again. "The file indicates that the parties have reached an agreement on the disposition of this case."

"We have," Janine confirmed.

Peter could feel the jurist's eyes turn toward him. "Will the defendant please rise and state your full name for the court."

"Peter Lowell Burke." He pushed himself upright again, relying on the table to help support his shaking legs.

"Mr. Burke, the charge against you is one count of Manslaughter in the first degree. How do you plead?"

Peter's mouth suddenly felt like he had tried to swallow half of the Sahara desert. He cleared his throat and managed to force one word out. "Guilty."

Kern made a notation on his file and then spoke again. "I see a recommendation of one hundred and two months. Mr. Williams, is it correct that the District Attorney's office has agreed to this plea?"

"It is, your honor," Williams confirmed. "The People are satisfied that this agreement serves the interests of justice in this case."

"And Ms. Wexler, you have discussed the options available to your client?"

Janine nodded. "Yes, sir. Mr. Burke and I discussed all of his options regarding this case."

Kern made a couple more notes, and then turned his attention back to Peter. "Mr. Burke, do you understand the terms of this agreement? If I accept your plea, you will, in fact, be found guilty of the charge against you."

Peter swallowed hard a couple of times. "I understand the terms, and the consequences, sir."

"I have your written statement concerning the circumstances in the case file," Kern said. "Do you have anything else to add?"

"No, sir. I believe everything is in that statement." Peter had been given the option of writing a statement, or giving an account orally in the court; he knew better than to think he'd make it through actually saying the words.

"Any other input from the attorneys of record?" Both Williams and Janine demurred, so Kern continued. "Given the facts of this case, the defendant's statement, and the agreement between the State and the defense, I find no reason to raise objections to the negotiated terms. I therefore accept the plea of guilty from the defendant and impose a sentence of one hundred and two months, to be served at the Cayuga Correctional Facility. The clerk of the court will certify these orders immediately following this session. Is there any other business to bring before the court?"

Janine held up a file. "Your Honor, my client is recovering from injuries sustained in a motor vehicle crash. I would request that his medical records be transferred with him to Cayuga."

"So ordered." Kern motioned her forward, and took the file. He signed something, then handed the medical file and some other documents to the clerk. "Anything else?"

Janine and Williams spoke almost in unison. "No, sir."

"Bailiff, you are instructed to take the defendant into custody," Kern ordered. He rapped the gavel on the desk twice. "This case is closed."

_And as the court officer came forward, and Peter felt the handcuffs being applied to his wrists, he knew it wouldn't be closed for him for a very long time…_

* * *

Later that night, after a long bus ride, another thorough search, his first communal shower since his baseball days, and a change of clothing into institutional drab, Peter was led to his new home. It was an open dormitory, one assigned for intake and populated mainly by inmates fairly new to Cayuga. During the brief orientation, the guards – _no, they preferred correctional officer_ – explained that all new inmates were evaluated for a period of time after their arrival. They would all have interviews with social case workers, the prison psychologists, and the infirmary medical staff. At some point a decision would be made on where he would spend the rest of his time.

He was hoping for one of the honor blocks with cubicles; it would be as close as he'd come to having some personal space here.

But as he lay down on the hard bunk that night, staring up at the scratched and graffitied base of the bed above him, and listening to the snoring of the men already asleep, the reality really hit him.

This was _home_ for the next seven-plus years. Everything he'd had, planned for, achieved, was gone.

And in the darkness of lights-out, he let the silent tears fall.


	18. Cayuga

**_A/N: Oh, so many good scenarios… but writing them all out would probably take the seven years Peter will be in prison. Since the heart and soul of White Collar is the interaction between Neal and Peter, I'll let them summarize things in a series of conversations. There may be a few guest stars along the way too._**

* * *

**Year 1 – August**

Peter stepped into the visiting room, pausing to look around. He'd been at Cayuga for just over three weeks, and this was the first time he'd been tapped with the news that he had a visitor. He'd asked his parents to give him a month to adjust, but maybe they had decided that three weeks was close enough. Or maybe his visitor was someone else…

Like Neal.

He spotted his partner – correction, _former_ partner – across the room standing near the vending machines, looking almost as nervous as Peter felt.

Peter started across the room, and he could tell the moment when Neal saw him. The traces of nervousness, which were probably only noticeable to someone who knew him very well, disappeared, replaced by a measured smile brimming with confidence.

Neal gestured toward one of the low tables along the wall nearest the food area, and Peter made his way past the other visiting groups. They met near the table, and for a long moment the two men just stood there, and then, moving almost as one, they came together, embracing.

The contact felt so good, so _safe_, and Peter found he didn't want it to end. But in the end he was reminded of the guideline, that _brief_ physical contact was allowed at the beginning and end of each visit, and he reluctantly stepped back. Getting a violation on his first visit probably wasn't the way to do things.

The two men sat down, and Neal's eyes narrowed, staring across the table. "How are you, Peter? Honestly."

"Honestly?" Peter sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Honestly, I feel like I've barely slept. I guess I'm getting used to the routine here, but it's hard."

Neal was nodding. "Yeah, I remember that part."

"Physically, I'm all right," Peter continued. "The leg is still a problem, but I have regular appointments in the infirmary. The facilities aren't quite like the Mount Sinai physical therapy department, but they have me on an exercise program."

"That's good. I thought it looked like you were walking a little better."

"Yeah, slow but steady."

"Does your rehab program include coffee?" Neal reached into his pocket and pulled out two rolls of quarters. "I came prepared," he added, gesturing toward the vending area.

"You know I never say no to a good cup of coffee."

"I don't know how good it will be," Neal warned, getting to his feet. "I doubt it's Italian roast."

"Well, the company will make it taste good."

That got a smile from Neal. "You want anything else? Candy? Chips?"

"You think they have Reese's peanut butter cups?"

"Probably." Neal grabbed one of the rolls and started toward the machines. "Don't go away."

"Not much chance of that," Peter said softly.

It didn't take long before Neal was back at the table, with two cups of coffee and two candy bars.

Peter accepted one of the cups, inhaling the steam. "Definitely smells better out here."

Neal tried a quick sip. "Not actually that bad for institutional," he conceded.

"But not a cappuccino in the clouds."

"Well, no. But like you said, it's the company that matters."

"Speaking of," Peter started, looking around. "Which agent did you bribe?"

"Incentivize, Peter. Incentive, not bribe, remember?"

"Right."

"And actually, there's no agent."

"Oh? Should I be expecting the Marshals to burst in at any moment?"

"Nope." And now there was a full-fledged Caffrey grin on Neal's face. "Didn't need one."

"Oh, and how does that work? Mozzie finally hacked the tracking database?"

Neal shook his head, serious now. "I talked to Hughes, told him that I wanted to come up here. And, well, I guess he likes me more than I thought."

"Your methods might be a little strange at times, but he knows how much you've helped the Bureau."

"Well, he went to bat for me with the Marshals. I now have a curfew from midnight to six in the morning, with the four mile radius. Otherwise, they just do a few random checks during the day. As long as the anklet isn't cut, and I don't leave the tri-state area, it's all good."

"Neal, that's great."

"Yeah, and he took care of getting me approved to visit too. Since I'm still on probation, I had to get permission."

"I'm glad you got it," Peter said, noticing that his voice cracked just a little.

"Me too."

There was silence then, covered as both men sipped at their cooling coffee.

"Hey, did you know Hughes' wife, Arlene, is a nurse? He had her call me. She's working part-time, and said if I needed any advice or help, I should call. And Hughes gave me his private number. He said in his experience, kids tend to get sick in the wee hours of the morning, so I can call him direct if I need to take Rebecca out of my radius."

"That could be very helpful." Peter cleared his throat, hoping it covered how his hand was suddenly shaking. "How… how is she? I mean, I got your letters…"

The soft smile was back on Neal's face. "She's good, Peter. I'm sure you haven't gotten this letter yet, but, Wednesday, they let me hold her. No gloves or anything, and I got to feed her. She took that bottle like a champ."

"Oh, Neal, that's great news."

"You know, I never thought I'd say this, but having baby spit dribble down my neck isn't really so bad."

"See, I knew you could do it. She's still making progress?"

"The doctors said she's gaining weight right on schedule, and now that she's taking the bottle without trouble she can go home soon. Maybe even next week."

"Oh, that's great news."

Neal nodded, then looked down at his hands. "Can I admit I'm excited and terrified at the same time?"

"Sure. I've thrown a huge task at you. But I have faith."

"It's got me doing things I sure didn't think would be happening."

"Like what?"

"Well, for one, I'm researching cars. Do you know how many different safety tests and reports there are? Front impact, side impact, high speed."

"So you're buying a car?"

"Hauling a baby seat around in a succession of cabs seems rather inefficient. Plus, I'm not sure some of those drivers have real licenses."

"Do you?"

Neal grinned. "Yes, I do. Legitimate and in my name."

"Ever owned a car before?"

"Gary Rydell did."

"Isn't he the one who _wrecked_ cars?"

"Yes, but that was part of the persona. And most of Gary's exploits were more rumor than fact. I, personally, happen to be an excellent driver."

"Oh, really."

"The navigation system wouldn't yell at me nearly as much as it yelled at you."

Peter just laughed. "So are you buying a Taurus?"

"No, they actually have a few safety flaws. I'm looking at a Volvo S60. Best rating I've seen in key areas, at least in standard sedans."

"Neal Caffrey, driving a sedan."

"Yeah, picture it. I hope the upholstery protection covers baby spit."

"I'm sure it does."

"I've been looking at day care places too. There's a lot to consider."

"Find anything promising?"

"I talked to several agents who use a place just down the block from the office. It looks good. Really clean and bright, good staff to child ratio, a nurse on duty, and open long hours."

"Sounds good. Did you get moved into the house all right?"

"Working on it. That room on the third floor gets good light. I think it's going to be a great studio."

"Good. I hope I didn't leave too much of a mess."

Neal shook his head. "I've got most of your things packed up. It'll all be waiting for you in the basement."

"Neal, if you need the room…"

"I don't."

"Well, I appreciate it," Peter said. He drained his cup and leaned back in his chair. "You have a lot going on."

Neal got to his feet, grabbing some more quarters. "Just wait until I tell you about the sting we're setting up to take down Vasily Lyovkin," he said. "But we need more coffee first."

**Year 1 – Late August**

Peter smiled as he approached the table. "Nice shirt."

"Thought you might like it." Neal held his arms wide, displaying the whole design across his chest.

It was a picture of Rebecca, sleeping in her crib – the one Peter had put together. The butterfly mobile hung over her sleeping form, the gentle glow of the nightlight illuminating the scene.

Peter sat down, finding it hard to take his eyes off the photo. "She's settled in all right?"

"Yeah, just fine." Neal sat down and slid a cup of coffee across the table.

"You look a little tired," Peter noted.

"Your daughter has a good appetite. She just prefers small, frequent meals."

"Getting any sleep?"

"It's getting better. Sara's staying over three or four nights a week, so that helps. We take turns."

"Awakening Sara's maternal instinct? So maybe you and she…"

"We're friends, Peter."

"Still with benefits?"

"Occasionally," Neal replied. "When we're not both too tired."

"I still think she's good for you."

"Right now, I'm just glad she's a friend. I need all the help I can get."

"Rebecca's with Sara today?"

"No, actually, I stopped by Ithaca on my way. Rebecca is spending some quality time with her grandparents."

"Oh, that's great. Thanks for doing that."

"Peter, I want her to know your family, and Elizabeth's."

Something about Neal's tone on those last two words caught Peter's attention. "Something wrong?"

"Your family has been great, Peter. They call, offer support."

"But…"

"Nothing you have to worry about, Peter."

"Neal."

Neal sighed, and stalled for a moment, sipping his coffee. "I got a letter from a lawyer. The Mitchells aren't happy about a convicted felon raising their granddaughter, and they're considering fighting it in court."

Peter set his own cup of coffee down, shaking his head. "I'm sorry to hear that, Neal. I can contact Krenz."

"I already did," Neal said. "He assures me that, however crazy it was for you to name me Rebecca's guardian, legally, you were well within your rights. It's just, it could get messy. I want them to know their granddaughter, not make enemies of them."

"I'll write to them, see if I can explain."

"Thanks, that might help. Krenz said to give him time to talk to their lawyer. Then maybe I'll invite them to come to New York, get to know Rebecca."

"I don't know if there's anything I can do from here, but if there is…"

"I'll let you know, Peter." Neal looked down at his shirt. "I won't give her up without a fight," he added softly.

"Already got you wrapped around her little finger?" Peter asked, smiling.

"And every other part of her body."

"Well, you always did have a way of charming the ladies."

"Other way around this time, I think."

Peter just nodded, still smiling. "I knew I picked the right man for the job."

"Still a lot of opportunity for me to make mistakes," Neal warned.

"I'm sure you'll make some. But you'll both be fine," Peter said. "I have all the faith in the world in that."

**Year 1 – September**

"Burke, you've got a visitor."

Trying to act as nonchalantly as possible, Peter got up from his chair in the common room, where he had been pretending to watch television. It was strange – he'd been in Cayuga for a little less than two months, and Neal had only been visiting for a few weeks. Still, when the normal time had come and gone, with no announcement of a visitor, he'd felt an overwhelming sense of disappointment and loneliness.

It gave him a better understanding of what had driven Neal to escape, actually. And if he was feeling the emptiness so soon, missing his friend, what must Neal have been feeling when, after over three years of visits from someone he loved so deeply, they simply stopped.

He got to the visitation room and looked around, wondering what kind of shirt Neal would have this time. Last week it had been his new car…

Except it wasn't Neal he saw.

"Diana!"

She stood up from the table, a small, tentative smile on her face. "Hey, Peter."

He wasn't exactly sure on proper protocol for greeting a former subordinate, so he skipped the hug he usually greeted Neal with. "It's good to see you," he said, taking a seat. He let his eyes scan the visiting area; still no Neal.

"I guess I'm not who you were expecting," Diana surmised.

"Well, Neal's been the only one here."

"I know…"

Something in the way she said those two words put him on alert. "Is something wrong? Don't tell me Neal's in trouble."

"No, nothing like that."

"Then what?"

Diana sucked in a deep breath before speaking. "He told you we were setting up a sting for Lyovkin, right?"

"Yeah, he did." And now Peter was very wary. "What happened?"

"Neal had been meeting with Lyovkin's people for a couple of weeks, working his way up the ladder." She paused, shaking her head. "It was tough, Peter, listening to him bargaining for the 'services' of those children."

"Rough on him too, I would guess."

"Very. A couple of times Jones found him throwing up in the men's room afterward."

"But he got through to Lyovkin?"

She nodded. "The meet was set for yesterday. I went in with him as his accountant. Neal was negotiating to buy the contracts for a dozen kids for a dummy gambling organization we set up. And he was good, Peter. You would have been proud."

"I'm sure." And Peter knew the pride in his voice was evident, even just in two words. "But something went wrong?"

"We had NYPD for backup," Diana started. "One of their SWAT vans came in two blocks closer than planned and Lyovkin's guards spotted them."

"Don't tell me Neal got shot."

"No, not shot. But Lyovkin had the warehouse rigged with small explosives and flammable liquid. ERT is still analyzing the debris. He triggered it."

"Hoping to use the fire and smoke to escape," Peter guessed.

Diana nodded. "Didn't work – we caught all of them. But it turned the whole place into a blazing, smoky inferno. Neal… he pushed me out the door with a couple of the kids who had been brought to the meeting as samples. And then he went back in because he knew where the other children were being held."

Peter found it was hard to ask the next question; maybe he was just afraid of the answer. "Did he get them?"

"All of them. He got them out safe. None of the kids had more than slight injuries."

"And Neal?"

"Broken ankle, some smoke inhalation, and a minor concussion."

He breathed a sigh of relief. "So he'll be all right."

"Yeah. The doctors said the leg was a clean break. Six weeks in a cast and some therapy should do it. His lungs were already clearing last night. And I stopped by the hospital this morning. The concussion symptoms had cleared, so they were planning to release him today. Jones was waiting with him." She paused, smiling. "Neal's biggest worry this morning was that you'd be expecting him here."

"I have gotten kind of used to his visits already," Peter admitted. "What about Rebecca? If Neal's hurt…"

"She's fine. Christie stayed with her last night. And she had today off so she was staying until Neal was home."

"Christie? So are the two of you…"

"Back together?" Diana shook her head. "No. She was there last night when they brought Neal in."

"She was there when they brought El in too," Peter all but whispered.

"Yeah, she was. She just wanted to help."

"Tell her I appreciate it."

"I will. Neal has a lot of people to help him, Peter." Diana paused, smiling. "You should see him though with the baby. He brings her to the office in the morning a couple of times a week, before going to daycare. And if it's a slow paperwork day, he picks her up at lunch and brings her over. She's got every agent in the unit calling themselves her aunt or uncle."

"He was pretty worried about being able to raise a child. It's good that he has help."

"Oh, plenty of it. You know, I'm not sure why you chose Neal to be Rebecca's guardian, but it was a good move. He's just… different now."

"How so?"

"He's just more… mature. I mean, he still drives me nuts at times, but it's different. I haven't even threatened him with bodily harm in weeks."

That deserved a laugh, and Peter obliged. "That is high praise."

"Exactly. And like I said, all he could think about this morning was not letting you down, expecting a visit. So, here I am."

"Well, I'm sorry Neal got hurt – but it's good to see you, Diana. I'm glad you came."

"Yeah?" She looked a little hesitant. "Some of us have wanted to come, but we weren't sure if seeing us would be too hard for you."

Peter shook his head. "What I did to end up here had nothing to do with the FBI, and it can't erase the memories. We did some good work together."

"Some _really_ good work," Diana agreed. "I'll let the others know."

Peter nodded. "So, what else is going on?"

Diana grinned. "Well you know how Neal has his tie drawer? Now everyone has a baby toy drawer, thanks to your daughter. Even Cranshaw."

"Adam Cranshaw? I didn't think he liked anyone or anything."

"The power of a cute baby. Cranshaw was on the floor with her on Monday, making googly noises and shaking a rattle."

"Now that _is_ news," Peter agreed. _And if his voice cracked just a little, and a single tear escaped down his cheek because he couldn't be there with his daughter, well, he figured Diana would understand…_

**Year 1 – September**

Neal kicked his leg up on an empty chair and pulled the denim of his jeans back, giving Peter a good look at the cast. "Pretty impressive, huh?"

"What, no medieval torture devices?"

"Nope. Mine was a clean break, unlike yours." Neal handed over a felt tip pen. "I had to get special permission to bring this in so you could sign my cast."

"Well, I'll try to refrain from stabbing you with it," Peter muttered as he pulled the cap off.

"I'd appreciate that." He waited until Peter was done and then leaned in to read the inscription. "Seriously, Peter?" he said, rolling his eyes. "Out of all the words in the English language, 'cowboy up' is the best you could do?"

Peter grinned and handed the pen back. "Seemed appropriate. Though from what Diana said, I guess you did a pretty good job of that last week."

"I couldn't let those kids die."

"No, you couldn't," Peter agreed. "I don't know if it still means much, but I'm very proud of you."

"It means a lot. I'm trying so hard, Peter, to live up to what you expect of me. I don't want to let you down."

"Diana says you're staying out of trouble. That's a good start."

"Mozzie says if I'm even tempted by temptation, he'll make sure I'm sorry."

"Oh, so it's _Mozzie_ who's going to keep you on the straight and narrow?"

Neal nodded. "When I brought Rebecca home, late that first night, he was there. We were just watching her sleep. I told him I was out of the game, that I had to be, for good. He said he not only understood, he approved – in fact, for Elizabeth's sake, he would insist."

"So how's it going with the temptation?"

"Every time I am tempted, I think about that little girl," Neal replied, and his voice cracked just a bit. "And then I think, I can't let her down."

"I know you won't Neal," Peter said, leaning forward to put a hand on the younger man's shoulder. "I know you won't."


	19. Adjusting

**Year 1 – October**

Neal set two cups of coffee on the table and sat down. "So, you said you had news?"

Peter took a sip from his cup and nodded. "I'm getting moved to a new dorm next week. I'll actually have my own cubicle."

"A little personal space. That's a good thing. I'm still kind of surprised they have you in general population though."

"I asked to try it. And it seems that the nature of my crime has won me enough points to override my former profession."

"Most of the inmates I knew did tend to be protective of their wives and children," Neal agreed.

"Probably helps that this is a medium security facility too," Peter said. "Most of the guys here will be going home at some point, unless they screw up inside."

"True, they have more to lose than a lifer."

"Plus, this is a state facility. Not much crossover with the federal cases I worked."

"You 'traded' me to a state facility."

"Neal, you were a special case, in so many ways."

"I'm glad you noticed," Neal said, with his trademark grin. "Anyway, I'm glad you're getting your space."

"Yeah. Not exactly private with only a four foot wall, but I'll have someplace to put up some of those photos of Rebecca you send."

"I dropped off her three-month photos in the mail drop today. You should have them in a couple of days once they've cleared security."

"Never know what you might have hidden in those prints."

Neal grinned. "Oh, Peter, if I hid something, they'd never find it."

Peter paused, his cup halfway up. "Neal, you didn't…"

"No, Peter, they're just pictures. But if you want, I guess I could put some baby blocks in the next photos, and do some kind of code."

"Sure, just what I'd need."

"I'll work on it," Neal promised. "Maybe we'll start simple. A nursery rhyme or something."

"Well, you know I like puzzles. Just don't get me kicked out of my cubicle."

"I'll try. Anything else going on?"

"Neal, I had one piece of news. That's a lot around here."

"True." Neal nodded, and took another sip of his coffee. "Well, I have news."

"Good news, I hope."

"Lots of changes at work. Wednesday was a busy day."

"Did they fill my spot?"

"Diana Berrigan is now the Special Agent in Charge for the Manhattan White Collar division."

Peter's smile was instant, and proud. "Oh, that's great. She deserves it."

"She has big shoes to fill," Neal said. "But yeah, it's good. And, on a related note, all of the interrogations of Lyovkin's people led to a whole web of smuggling operations. Jones accepted a position as lead FBI liaison on a multi-agency task force. As Hughes put it, most of the alphabet agencies are involved."

"Good for him. He'll be good at something like that."

"You taught your team well, Peter. They're very capable."

"I'm glad my meltdown didn't hurt their careers," Peter said quietly.

"We do miss you."

"Good to know."

"I don't think Diana does the exasperated bureaucrat thing quite as well as you do."

"Well, give her time. She'll probably have to deal more directly with you, that should help her develop."

"Thanks. She already has the scary mean thing down."

"But, of course, you won't be giving her any cause to be scary mean to you."

Neal flashed his fanciest grin. "Never."

Peter just sighed. "I wish her luck."

Neal was still grinning as he continued. "In further news, Hughes is retiring. Again. He says it's for good this time."

"Going out on his terms. Always a good thing."

"It is. He's leaving at the end of the year, so they're hoping to have a replacement in place by December."

"Transition time. That's good. Any names being mentioned?"

Neal shook his head. "Not that I've heard. But I'll keep my ears open."

"I'm sure you will. That's a lot of change."

"It is," Neal agreed. "And there's one more thing." He swiveled on his seat and stretched his legs out, lifting both pants cuffs.

Peter looked down, noting the cast that was still covering Neal's left ankle. The tracking anklet had moved to the other leg…

And it wasn't there.

"Neal, your anklet is missing."

"Prison has not dulled your powers of observation."

"Should I be expecting the Marshals to come bursting in at any moment?"

"Nope." Neal swung his legs back under the table and took a deep breath. "The probation board commuted the rest of my sentence."

"Neal, that's great! You didn't even mention you had a hearing."

"That's just it, Peter, I didn't. I had no idea it was even being discussed. It was all Hughes. He took all the case files, and the reports from the warehouse deal, and went to the board." Neal paused with a short laugh. "Even Ruiz recommended they approve the commutation."

"Making new friends," Peter said. "I'm really happy for you."

"Thanks, Peter."

"So, what now?"

"Well, in Wednesday's final personnel move, Hughes offered me a Lead Analyst position. Full time, benefits and everything."

"You accepted?"

"I did. It feels strange… but good."

"Neal, you do good work. And with Mozzie keeping you on the right side of the law, it should be even better."

"It's working. He hasn't so much as suggested running a game of Find the Lady in the park."

Peter shook his head slowly. "I'm going to need a little more time to really accept that he's serious about not dragging you into something."

"Hey, Hal Hoover is happily back to driving his cab."

"I suppose that cab finds its way to Brooklyn some nights."

"It does. I still have a better wine selection." Neal grinned again. "But don't worry. I don't let Moz put any in Rebecca's bottle."

"Now I _am_ going to worry about that," Peter muttered, but without a whole lot of conviction in his voice.

"Well, don't worry if I don't make it here next weekend."

"Taking a vacation with your new-found freedom?"

"Sort of. I get the cast off on Tuesday morning, and then I'm going to take Rebecca to Illinois, and see the Mitchells."

Peter hesitated a moment before speaking. "They haven't made a move to challenge custody, have they?"

"No, I haven't heard any more on that. I think Krenz explained things pretty well in the reply he sent to their lawyer."

"I wrote to them too," Peter said. "Tried to explain why I want Rebecca raised here – why El wanted that."

"I still think picking me as her guardian could have worked well in an insanity defense…"

"Oh, have you forged a degree in psychology now?"

"No. And… it's actually working out better than I thought it would," Neal admitted. "Raising a baby still scares me, but I'm learning."

"A new skill set for Neal Caffrey."

"Always good to keep learning, I guess. Anyway, I want to make sure everything is settled with the Mitchells. Family's important, and Rebecca should know hers."

"I really appreciate you doing that, Neal."

"It should be fun – as long as Rebecca doesn't scream the whole flight to Chicago."

"I'm sure the two of you will do fine."

"It is kind of nice to be able to go somewhere again."

"And presumably there are no active warrants waiting in Chicago?"

The grin was back. "I'm sure the statute of limitations has run on anything that might, allegedly, have happened there."

Peter could only sigh and shake his head. "Make sure and send me some pictures…"

**Year 1 – December**

"Thanks for the Christmas box."

Neal set the two cups of coffee down and slid a candy bar across the table. "I figured you could use a few things, and I'm intimately familiar with the list of what's allowed in New York prisons."

Peter tore open the candy wrapper as he nodded. "That heavier winter jacket is really going to be good."

"Well, you are a bit north now, and without the ocean to temper the cold."

"I know. That makes the robe a good thing too." Peter paused, smiling as he pointed at Neal's shirt. "I think I grinned for two days when I got that picture in the mail." The photo t-shirt showed Rebecca sitting on the floor in a fancy red velvet dress with lace, a red headband with a star on her head. Her laughing smile showed off two brilliantly white teeth on her top gum. Satchmo was right behind her, looking not quite so pleased with the reindeer antlers on his head.

"I probably grinned that long after taking the photo," Neal confirmed. "They always say don't work with kids and animals, so I wasn't sure I'd get them both to sit still long enough to get anything."

"I don't imagine she's always that happy either."

"She has been having some teething issues, but nothing too bad. And everything looked good at her six month check-up."

Peter leaned back and sighed. "Six months. That hardly seems real."

"Well, it would actually fall next week, but we'll be in Illinois."

"So, you and the Mitchells…"

"We've worked it all out, Peter."

"I'm really glad to hear that."

"I didn't want trouble," Neal said. "But no one is taking that little girl away from me without one hell of a fight."

"You've decided that you really can do this after all?"

"The jury's still out on that. But I have decided that she'll get my best effort."

"Neal Caffrey's best is usually pretty damn good."

"I hope it is in this case. Oh, Rebecca has mastered a new trick!"

"Yeah? What now?"

"She can roll from her back onto her belly."

"You said she got scared when she first rolled the other way."

"Well, not this time. She was determined. I think she inherited your stubbornness."

"I am not stubborn!" Peter protested, rolling his eyes at Neal's answering grin.

"I'll collect witness statements," Neal muttered, just loud enough for Peter to hear, of course. "Your folks have a big tree set up."

"Right in front of the bay window, I bet. That's where it always was."

"And it's still there. Rebecca was fascinated by the twinkling lights, and all of the colorful wrapping paper. It's probably a good thing she's not mobile yet, or those packages would be in danger."

"Her first Christmas," Peter mused, his voice trailing off.

"Your folks promised to take lots of photos."

"That'll be good."

"Karen and her kids had arrived just before I got there to drop Rebecca off."

"She wrote about still wanting you to come and speak to her class."

Neal nodded. "She mentioned that. We're going to talk tonight."

"So you're interested?"

"Sure, it could be fun."

"No giving tips on how to forge copies of the masters."

Neal frowned, slapping one hand to his chest. "Peter, you wound me."

"No, I know you," Peter countered.

"I promise to clear all lecture topics with Professor Manning."

"I guess that'll do." Peter paused for some of his coffee before continuing. "So how's it going with the new Bureau Chief?"

"Special Agent Brenda Cullen is making herself right at home in New York. She seems to be adapting to the city well."

"I told you I met her at a couple of the best practices conferences. She always seemed very competent."

"I agree. She's spending most of her time with Hughes, of course, but she's also making time to talk to everyone individually."

"That's smart. She'll want to evaluate everyone's strengths and weaknesses."

"Exactly. We had a nice conversation the other day." Neal paused with a slight shake of his head. "Someone must have put in a good word for me."

"I'm sure more than one person might have done that," Peter said.

"Maybe. You know, she actually wants me to go to DC for an Analyst orientation program."

"Sounds interesting."

"Peter, I've worked for the Bureau for three and a half years."

"Your role has changed."

"Maybe you should have sent me to an orientation back then."

"I think your position was a little more tenuous three and a half years ago," Peter pointed out. "No one understood even half of what you were going to be able to bring to the job."

That got a quizzical smile from Neal. "Not even you?"

Peter laughed softly. "Oh, you surprised me a lot of times."

"Surprised in a good way?"

"Most of the time."

"Well, Cullen and I are going to talk more about it next month. We'll see what happens."

"Sounds good. Now, tell me about the Christmas plans with the Mitchells…"

**Year 1 – April**

"I can't believe she's crawling already."

"Yup, and once she started, she's really taking off." Neal looked down at the photo imprinted on his shirt, smiling. "This was the first time she realized she could get to Satchmo's food bowl."

Peter was smiling too. "Did she like the kibble?"

"Seemed a little confused by it, actually."

"Slumming it?"

"Hey, I buy the high quality dog food!" Neal protested. "Actually, Satchmo might have been more confused. He thought his food was safe."

"I hope they've worked that out peacefully."

"Peter, they are inseparable. Satch would give Rebecca his last chew toy."

"So you're not the only one taken in by her charms."

"Not even close. You should see Mozzie with her."

Peter gave an exaggerated shudder. "Not sure I want to picture that."

"No, he's good with her Peter."

"He better not be using her to run any cons," Peter warned.

"He's actually very protective of Rebecca." Neal paused, shaking his head. "Maybe it's because he grew up without parents. He really wants to make sure she has the best."

"The best. Does that mean questionable gifts?"

"Define questionable."

Peter sighed and shook his head. "I probably don't want to know."

"You really don't. But I promise, nothing explosive, or poisonous, or otherwise detrimental to her health."

Peter shrugged and leaned back. "I guess it's good that you've got help."

"Plenty of it. I've been getting to know some of the neighbors. Mrs. Kent sends over a pan of meatloaf every Tuesday."

"We didn't get food every week, but now and then. Which would be nice, if the woman could actually cook."

"Yeah, it's pretty bad."

"Satchmo always liked the meatloaf."

Neal grinned. "Yeah, I found that out. Have to be careful now though that Rebecca doesn't get into it."

"True. New baby-proofing needs."

"Baby gates at the top and bottom of the stairs," Neal confirmed. "And a few other improvements. Arlene Hughes went shopping with me to offer advice."

"Did she say how Reese was liking retirement?"

"I kind of got the feeling that the offer to go shopping was mainly a way to get out of the house. But apparently they're going to have grandkids staying with them most of the summer, so he'll be busy then."

"I'll bet."

"What about you, Peter. How are you doing?"

Peter sighed, staring down at the empty candy wrapper he was twisting. "The only time I've felt more useless was when I couldn't save El," he admitted softly. "How did you do it?" he asked, looking up again. "How did you handle the boredom?"

"We might need some more coffee for this," Neal said, getting to his feet. "And maybe some more chocolate."

Neal grabbed the loose change from the table and made his way to the vending machines, waiting behind another visitor briefly to get the candy. Then he got the coffee and returned to the table.

"First," he said, setting the items on the table. "I pretty much read my way through the library."

"I guess I don't go often enough," Peter admitted. "It's been hard to get interested in things."

"Boredom has a way of making some things seem more interesting than you ever would have imagined."

"I'll try again."

"Sing Sing had an arrangement with the state library system where you could request other books to be sent in," Neal continued. "Well, as long as it wasn't something considered dangerous, or part of an escape plan."

"You mean like a truck repair manual?"

"I was simply furthering my education," Neal countered, even managing to make it sound somewhat convincing.

"Uh huh."

Neal just grinned and moved on. "I worked part-time in the library, and that helped pass some time. What's the job situation here?"

"There's a waiting list. I'm on it, but they said it might be a while."

"Well, there might be some unofficial things you can do. I did some tutoring on the side."

Peter raised an eyebrow at that. "The Neal Caffrey school of con artistry?"

Neal grinned and shook his head. "Oh, I wouldn't share all my secrets like that to just anyone." Then he turned serious. "There were a lot of guys in my cell block who could barely read or write. I helped them."

"No one verified your education credentials?"

"Hey, Neal Caffrey had a diploma. It was Danny Brooks who didn't."

"And the diploma was impeccably forged, as were the advanced degrees."

Neal was grinning again. "Thank you."

Peter just rolled his eyes. "Actually, after seeing the way you handled the classroom in the Manhattan Prep case, I can see how you'd be a good teacher. El thought so too."

"Thanks." Neal paused, debating how to continue; Peter rarely mentioned Elizabeth, and now her name had come up twice. "One of the prison social workers helped set up the tutoring," he finally said. "You might be able to do something like that. You are pretty good with math."

"It's not a bad idea. I'll look into it."

"I also found the people I could count on not to stab me in the back – literally or figuratively. We'd play cards, chess, watch television together in the common room, or sometimes just talk. It was important to have people like that."

Peter nodded. "I think I've met a couple of guys like that. I admit, I've been keeping to myself, but maybe it's time I open up a little."

"It's good to know who might watch your back, should the need arise."

"I imagine that's true."

"Any activity groups you might be interested in?"

"Actually… they're forming a baseball team in a couple of weeks. Do you think you still have my glove?"

"I know it's in one of the boxes I packed. Is your leg good enough so you can play?"

Peter slapped his hand against his injured leg a couple of times. "It's getting better. I might not be able to play much, but maybe I could coach. I bet I got closer to The Show than anyone else here."

Neal had to smile at the genuine enthusiasm creeping into Peter's voice. "Probably true. I'll find the glove and send it to you."

"Maybe you could get me some cleats too, just in case I can play," Peter added, the enthusiasm growing in his voice. "But they can't be metal, only…"

"Rubber," Neal finished. "I remember. And I will find some for you."

"The regular season started last week," Peter said. "There's a good group of Yankees fans. They listen to the games together. I could ask to join them."

"That's a great idea," Neal agreed, smiling. _Peter was sounding less bored already._

**Year 1 – June**

It was strange, Peter mused, as he was led down the hallway. First he'd been told that he had a visitor. It was the middle of the week, so unlikely to be Neal – unless something major had happened. And now, to add to the strangeness, they were heading toward the private visiting rooms, normally reserved for attorney meetings. He would have expected Janine to give him a little notice if she needed to see him about something.

And really, after a guilty plea, and having her legal fees covered under some sort of agreement with Neal, he wasn't sure what additional business they might even have.

Maybe something with his civil affairs, and it would be Krenz…

Still, after all of the musing, he was entirely unprepared for he found when the door was opened.

"Mozzie?"

"Dante Haversham, Esquire." Mozzie stepped around the table, holding out a business card. "I have the updated insurance settlement information you inquired about."

"Of course." Peter took the card and stepped all the way in as the guard pulled the door closed. "Insurance?" he said, taking a seat at the table, watching as Mozzie walked around to the other side. The other man didn't seem concerned, but… "Is something wrong? Is Neal hurt? Or Rebecca?"

Mozzie quickly shook his head. "No, no, nothing's wrong." He sat down and pulled something out of his briefcase. "Neal can't bring a phone or any electronics in when he comes on weekends, but as your attorney, I have a bit more leeway in order to provide the best possible representation.

Peter watched as Mozzie queued something up on a small tablet and slid it toward him. "I'm guessing this isn't really about insurance."

"Oh, something much better."

Peter looked down at the screen – swallowing hard against the lump that formed almost immediately in his throat. The video showed Rebecca standing next to a low table, laughing. Neal's voice could be heard in the background, calling her name. And then she turned, letting go of the table. She wobbled a moment, and Peter caught himself almost reaching out to catch her. But then she steadied, took a step, and another…

Five tiny steps later, she fell into Neal's arms, and he wrapped her in a hug.

"Her first steps," Mozzie said softly. "Neal knew she was close to letting go, so he's had me there every night for the last week, camera at the ready."

Peter brushed a stray tear from his cheek, reaching down with his other hand to select the replay option on the player. "Thank you," he whispered.

"The least we could do," Mozzie replied. "Unless you've finally decided to go with the daring escape to parts unknown plan, the offer of which still stands."

It was Peter's turn to shake his head, slowly. "When I finally get to go home to my daughter, it's going to be because I've done things right."

"Neal said that would be your answer."

"She looks… happy."

"She is, Peter. So is Neal. He still worries about making mistakes with her, but he's really so good with her."

"He says you've helped a lot."

"I do what I can. There are a lot of people who care, and who help."

"I'm not sure how I can ever repay everyone."

"Not necessary," Mozzie said. "She has Elizabeth's eyes," he added, and now his voice shook just a little.

"She does," Peter agreed. "She does."

He hit the replay option again…

**Year 1 – June**

"I'm not sure who had more fun, Rebecca or Satchmo."

Peter found he couldn't stop smiling, even as a tear threatened to trickle down his cheek. It was bittersweet, looking at the photo on Neal's shirt – and in another lifetime, he might have even considered the absurdity of spending so much time staring at Neal's chest.

This week's photo was from Rebecca's first birthday. She was in her highchair, tiny fists full of frosting, which had also found its way all over her face and into her hair. Below, Satchmo had settled in to clean up the cake that had fallen to the floor.

"It's hard to believe I've missed almost a whole year." Peter shook his head slowly. "She's gotten so big."

"The doctor said she's right on target for her age," Neal confirmed. "She's caught up from being born prematurely."

"Everyone says you're doing a great job with her."

"Doing my best, with a lot of help."

"All anyone could ask."

"Peter, are you sure you don't want to see her? I could…"

"No." Peter made the one word as firm as he could. "I don't want her here, Neal. You promised."

"I know. But I also promised I was going to try and change your mind."

"Not today, please. You know…"

"It's exactly one year since you ended the life support. I know. How are you holding up, Peter?"

"Sometimes I dream," Peter began. "I'm home, in Brooklyn, El is there, and everything is fine…"


	20. Doing Time

**Year 2 – November**

"Your little princess," Neal said as he removed his jacket, showing off his latest photo t-shirt.

Rebecca grinned up at the camera, a frilly princess costume spread around her as she sat on the floor. Her tiara was a bit askew, and there was chocolate smudged across her face. An overturned plastic pumpkin next to her disgorged the results of her first trick-or-treating excursion.

"I think she's inherited your talent for throwing a slider," Neal continued. "I was chasing all over trying to keep Satchmo from getting the chocolate."

Peter couldn't stop grinning – or staring. "That's an adorable costume."

"June's doing. Actually, Samantha helped. She's big into Halloween."

"You know, people are going to start talking. I spend way too much time staring at your chest on these visits."

Neal returned the grin. "Fodder for the rumor mill. Always a welcome thing in prison."

"So what are you going to do with all of these t-shirts you're getting made?"

"Actually, your mom is keeping most of them. I think she's putting together a collection for you. I only have three or four that have made it home."

"Well, I appreciate the effort you put into it. I mean, I know you send the prints, but the shirts are larger. It's got to be costing a lot though…"

"It would greatly disappoint my printing source if I stopped now."

"Wouldn't want that."

"Absolutely not. Now, how's the math tutoring going…"

**Year 2 – April**

"Hey, did you know Cayuga has a masonry program?"

Neal nodded, setting the second round of coffee on the table. "I've seen the display in the entry area."

"Well, the guy who was running it is retiring and moving to Florida next month. I was talking to my dad about it when he was here on Wednesday, and he offered to help out."

"Peter, that's great. Marian's mentioned a couple of times that he's run out of projects at home and was getting bored."

Peter nodded, sipping at his coffee. "Yeah, he seems excited about it. Went right from here to talk to the warden about it when he left. And it's only a few hours a week, two days, so not too hard on him."

"So it's a done deal?"

"They're running a background check before approving it, but I don't think my dad ever even got a parking ticket, so that shouldn't be a problem. And he's definitely got the contracting experience."

"Are you signing up for the program?"

"I think I might. I used to work for dad during the summers when I was in school. Been a while since I did any real brick work though."

"Well, seems like you're doing better at keeping the boredom away," Neal observed.

"You were right. Finding activities, and getting involved in the programs helps."

Neal gave a highly theatrical gasp. "Did you actually just say that I was _right_ about something?"

Peter scowled in return. "Don't let it go to your head."

"Too late. I'm telling everyone in the office."

"I'm sure you will."

"This won't interfere with baseball season, will it?"

Peter grinned and shook his head. "Oh, Neal, _nothing_ interferes with baseball!"

**Year 2 – June**

"Rebecca's second birthday. All her little friends from daycare at Coney Island."

"Brave man," Peter said absently, his attention still on the photo on Neal's shirt. Rebecca – _his little girl_ – was in the center, the ribbon attached to a bright green balloon grasped tightly in her small hand. There were several other toddlers gathered around the table, which was decorated with napkins and cups from Nathan's Original Hot Dogs. Said hot dogs and birthday cake were visible around them. "How many kids?"

"Thirteen." Neal smiled, shaking his head slowly. "Thank goodness for June and Samantha. And Jones – he's a natural at corralling children."

"Another of his many talents," Peter said softly, lost in his own thoughts. _How much he had missed…_

"Yeah," Neal agreed, and his smile faded. "I put some other photos in the mail drop for you. From the cemetery. Rebecca and I went there yesterday and put flowers on Elizabeth's grave."

Peter had to swallow a few times before he could find his voice. "Thanks for doing that," he finally managed to say.

"We look at photos a lot," Neal continued. "Mommy… daddy…"

"She's still too young to understand."

"But she's starting to, Peter. She knows most of her friends have a mommy and a daddy. She's smart, Peter, already putting concepts together, and she'll start asking questions before long."

Peter sighed, running his hands over his face. "I don't want to lie to her," he said. "But I don't want you to tell her things she's too young to process."

"Well, there's another option," Neal pointed out, his eyes straying to something over Peter's shoulder.

Peter knew exactly what Neal was looking at, and he shook his head. "No, absolutely not."

"Peter, they're set up to have children visit."

And Peter knew that; he walked past the family area every time he came to this room, and he could hear the voices of children now. "Not here, Neal."

"All right. But before long we're going to have to figure out what to tell her, and when."

Peter nodded slowly. "Let me think about it…"

**Year 3 – August**

"So, want to know the latest personal gossip?"

Peter nodded. "Sure. There hasn't been any for a while."

"Well, I always keep my ears open for you," Neal replied. "But you're right, there has been a bit of a drought."

"There has, so I hope you're not going to keep me in suspense for too long."

Neal grinned and leaned forward over the table. "Diana has a new girlfriend."

"Yeah? Someone serious?"

"Apparently. This is the first girlfriend she's brought to the Friday night bar gathering."

"That does sound serious." Peter twirled his finger to encourage Neal to keep going. "Come on, I need details."

"Well, her name is Shelley. She's a stock broker. They met at one of those financial seminars that Diana seems to thrive on."

"But not your cup of tea, so to speak," Peter prodded, smiling.

"Not if I have a choice," Neal agreed. "I'll just get the highlights from Diana."

"Financial seminar. Doesn't have the same ring as pottery class."

"No, it doesn't. But they seem good together, comfortable."

"That's great. Tell her congratulations."

"I will. And it's good news for all of us."

"How's that?"

Neal grinned. "Well, I knew something was up, Diana was being way too nice the last few weeks…"

**Year 3 – October**

"Okay, out with it."

Neal looked up, confused. "What?"

"Whatever's bothering you," Peter answered. "Something is, and you've talked all around it."

Neal shrugged, spinning his coffee cup on the table. "Sara's leaving."

"I thought things were good between you."

"Oh, it's not that. Sterling Bosch offered her the chance to run their Hong Kong office."

"Wow, that sounds like a big move."

"It is – a big move _up_ for Sara."

Peter drained his own cup as he studied his friend. "And how do you feel about it?"

"I'm not sure," Neal admitted, sighing. "Maybe I took having her around for granted. And with everything else going on, I never really explored whether we could have something more."

"Did you ask her to stay?"

"No, this is a great opportunity for her. And honestly, I'm not ready to think about something more permanent."

"A carry-over from all those years being ready to run at a moment's notice?"

"Maybe," Neal admitted. "Or maybe even after a couple of years of being a homeowner, and raising a child, I'm still afraid that I'll screw up somehow."

"I still have faith in you."

"Yeah?"

"You haven't let me down yet," Peter said. "And you know, I understand there are planes that go to Hong Kong."

"Probably," Neal agreed, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "We'll see…"

**Year 4 – July**

Peter accepted the second cup of coffee, blowing gently across the surface as he watched Neal sit down across from him. They'd covered the usual topics – Rebecca's progress, interesting cases at work, the latest gossip, the Yankees…

And something was obviously still on Neal's mind.

"So, how many cups of coffee do we go through before you tell me what's on your mind?"

Neal looked up from contemplating his own cup, a small, amused smile on his face. "I'm losing my edge if I was that obvious."

"You're talking to the ultimate Neal Caffrey expert," Peter reminded him. "Or at least, I was."

"Seems like you're still doing a pretty good job at it."

"So, give."

Neal sighed, staring back down at the cup. "Cullen wants me to carry a gun."

Whatever Peter might have been expecting, that wasn't it. "What? How would that work? I mean with your…"

The amused smile was back on Neal's face. "With my record? There's a process to petition to have firearm rights restored. Diana and Cullen conspired behind my back, filed the paperwork without even telling me."

"Is this related to the Mykoff case a few weeks back?"

"How did you…"

"Jones told me," Peter admitted. "Once again, you didn't stay in the van…"

"Once again, my team was in trouble," Neal countered.

"And you put yourself in harm's way to help them."

Neal shrugged. "What else was I supposed to do?"

Peter smiled, reaching out a hand to Neal's shoulder. "You did what you've always done. I always knew you'd have my back when I needed it."

Neal made a point of looking around the stark visiting room. "I didn't do a very good job of it when it really counted," he said softly.

"The stars aligned," Peter said, sighing. "Or maybe someone forgot to throw the right switch and the speeding freight trains were destined to crash." He pulled his hand back, looking around himself. "I did this to myself, Neal. Neither you nor anyone else could have stopped it."

"Destiny," Neal all but whispered.

"Something like that," Peter agreed. "So how do you feel about the gun?"

"Well, you know I can use one if I have to."

"You never did get around to telling me how that came about."

"No? Not much to tell, I guess. Growing up in St. Louis, Ellen couldn't be a cop, but she always worked in some kind of security position. It usually required carrying a gun. Once I was old enough, she'd take me to the shooting range with her."

"Another way she was important to you."

Neal nodded. "She made sure I could handle all sorts of different types of guns. Assemble, clean, load, shoot."

"But you turned your back on that. What happened?"

"My life turned one hundred eighty degrees. Instead of the police academy, I became a thief." Neal took a deep breath, blowing it out slowly. "Everything from my life in St. Louis was based on a lie. I left it all behind."

"Do you think they'll approve the firearms exception?"

"Cullen thinks so. I've been working for the FBI for six years, and none of my criminal history was violent."

"Something I, for one, always appreciated."

"I never would have been willing to shoot anyone just to steal something."

"But if you carry a gun now?"

Neal looked up, meeting Peter's eyes. "Could I shoot to protect Diana, or Blake, or someone else in the line of a suspect's fire?" He nodded. "Yes. I wouldn't want to, and I might get sick afterward, but I'd do it. It's just…"

"Just what?" Peter prompted.

"It just seems like such a big change."

"I think it's just an acknowledgement that what you're doing matters," Peter countered. "You do way more field work than most consultants, or analysts, would even consider."

"I'd be bored out of my mind of I had to sit at a desk all the time."

"And no one wants a bored Neal Caffrey on their hands!"

Neal laughed. "Was I that bad?"

"Worse."

"Well, I don't have time to be bored now. Your daughter sees to that. And now she starts pre-school in a few weeks."

"Think you can manage to help with the homework?"

The full Caffrey grin appeared. "I think I have a few good years before she's beyond my ability to help…"

**Year 4 – October**

"Peter, I am so sorry."

Peter nodded silently, letting the comforting hug linger just a little longer. He needed the contact today.

"It's hard to know she's gone," he admitted, as he and Neal finally sat down. "But mom had fought the respiratory problems for so long, and I guess she just didn't have the strength to keep on fighting."

"Yeah, I could see how worn out she was the last few times I've seen her," Neal replied. "Your dad said he was still working on the funeral arrangements."

"I know they had pre-planned things a few years ago. But there are still things to get scheduled."

"Have you put in a request to go?"

Peter shook his head slowly. "No."

"Peter, you have a clean record here. There's no reason they wouldn't approve it."

"No, that's not it, Neal. It's just… it's just, I don't want to see everyone like that. Or have them see me show up in chains."

"I'm sure they know how to be discrete," Neal pressed. "If you want, I can ask Diana to make a few calls."

"I got to see her in the hospital a few days ago," Peter said, his voice a little shaky. "It was more important to see her when she was alive."

"Yeah, I guess it would be."

"And you know what she talked about most?"

"What?"

"Rebecca. How much it meant to her to see her granddaughter so often when you came up here."

"And she enjoyed seeing them. I think it's possible that your parents may have spoiled your daughter just a little."

"Grandparents' prerogative, I think."

Neal smiled and nodded. "Fair enough. As long as it's clear that I had nothing to do with it."

"Actually, every time I saw mom and dad, they talked about how impressed they've been with how you're raising Rebecca."

"They see her for a few hours, or sometimes overnight. They don't see all the mistakes at home."

"We learn from our mistakes," Peter countered.

"Then I am overloaded by learning."

"Neal Caffrey has never met a challenge he couldn't conquer if he sets his mind to it."

"I'm humbled by your continued confidence in me."

"Well earned," Peter said. "Listen, if Lyle and Karen come here while they're home, I might hit my visit limit next week."

"No problem. I'll be coming up for the funeral anyway, so I can skip doing the drive again this week." Neal got to his feet, pulling his customary roll of quarters out. "Now, let me get the coffee and chocolate, and then I want to hear more about your mom…"

**Year 4 – June**

The photo on Neal's shirt this time was from Diana and Shelley's wedding. It showed the two happy brides – and the grinning flower girl.

Peter found that he was grinning himself. "They look so happy."

"Seem to be," Neal agreed. "It was a beautiful ceremony, and the weather couldn't have been better for a wedding in the park. Of course, the flower girl stole the show."

"She looks so much like El," Peter whispered.

"Yes, she does."

There was silence then for a few moments, until Peter finally pulled his eyes away from the picture. "So, they're off to Iceland for the honeymoon?"

"Left for Reykjavik yesterday. Apparently there are a number of activities around the summer solstice to celebrate. And a lot of hours of daylight for celebrating."

"I imagine. Land of the midnight sun?"

"Pretty close. Diana said they've booked a tour that will take them to a small island right on the Arctic Circle."

"I'm sure they'll have a lot of fun."

Neal grinned. "Not as much fun as the bachelor party, I'll bet."

"Diana wrote something about being sure the police would break it up at any point."

Neal slapped a hand to his chest and scowled. "I'm wounded," he protested – and then the grin came back. "But it was definitely a party to remember!"

Peter smiled and leaned closer. "I want all the details…"

**Year 5 – July**

"Oh, by the way, your daughter's name is no longer Rebecca."

Peter stopped mid-sip, looking over his coffee cup. "Really. And how does that work?"

Neal grinned, pausing for an agonizingly long sip of his own coffee before answering. "Apparently, she was having a long chat with a couple of kids from the next older pre-school group, and they were talking about nicknames. I picked her up the other day and she announced that she was now Becky."

"Becky." Peter took his time with the name, rolling it on his tongue. "Becky."

"Becky Burke. Nice alliteration."

"I'd never really thought about it," Peter admitted. "But I like it."

"Hmmmm. She wants new towels now."

"Towels?"

"I just gave her monogrammed towels as part of her birthday gift – RB. Now she thinks she should have new BB towels."

Peter grinned. "At least she's learning her alphabet."

Neal returned the grin. "Oh, she knows her letters, and her numbers. She's already reading the Level 1 books."

"Takes after her mother," Peter said softly.

"And her father," Neal added. "The numbers thing _has_ to be from you."

"Maybe so. But the drawing you mailed a couple of weeks ago shows some definite Neal Caffrey influence."

"She certainly has some artistic talent."

"So maybe we really are a mixture of nature _and_ nurture."

Neal raised an eyebrow. "Making a point, Peter?"

They'd never really talked about it again, not after James Bennett had left Peter to take the fall for a shooting. Neal had taken a firm stand on Peter's side – negating his previous argument that the Bennett blood determined his life. "Only that there are a lot of factors," he said carefully. "We can't deny blood, but we can shape it by nurture."

"Well, I will try not to nurture Becky in any way that's detrimental."

"Tell me about this carnival she was drawing…"

**Year 5 – February**

"She's starting to ask a lot of questions, Peter. I want to make sure what you want me to tell her."

Peter sighed, leaning back in the uncomfortable plastic chair. He'd known this day was coming, of course; they'd talked about it before. And he knew Neal had told Becky some of the story. But now… "What is she asking?"

"What happened to her mother. Where's her father. I know she's only four and a half, but she's starting to try and put things together."

"Is she ready to hear about death and prison?" Peter had rarely felt so far out of his depth – he'd never raised a child.

"I'm not sure," Neal admitted. "But I don't know what else to tell her."

"No, you can't lie to her," Peter agreed.

"Are you still sure you don't want me to bring her…"

"No." Peter was even more emphatic this time. "She can't come here, Neal."

Neal raised his hands in capitulation. "All right." He sighed, leaning forward. "I was thinking about asking Alan Mitchell for some advice. He doesn't really deal much with children in his practice, but…"

"Having a psychiatrist in the family should be helpful for something," Peter agreed. "That's a good idea…"

**Year 5 – May**

"Peter, I'm so sorry. I did everything I could."

Peter nodded, swallowing to try and ease the lump in his throat. "I'm sure you did, Neal."

Neal's voice was a little shaky too. "By Tuesday he just wasn't eating or drinking, and he couldn't get up."

"We always want the ones we love to live forever. Satchmo had a good life."

"I'd like to think so. He sure got a lot of love from Becky."

"How's she taking it?" Peter asked, almost afraid of the answer. _More loss for his little girl…_

"She's sad," Neal started. "But I think it's helped her understand what death is."

"Personal experience."

"Yeah. We stayed up pretty late that night, just talking. I told her Satch wanted to stay, to keep loving her, but sometimes even love isn't enough to keep people, or dogs, with us."

"Not enough to keep her mother with us," Peter whispered.

"We got out the photo albums again, and looked at pictures of El. I told Becky how much her mom loved her, even before she was born. But she just couldn't stay…"

Both men grew quiet, concentrating on their untouched coffee. And if their eyes were perhaps a bit misty, neither commented.

**Year 6 – August**

Peter grinned as he approached the table. Neal didn't do photo shirts for every visit as he had when Rebecca was younger, but he had one this time. His little girl, and a ginger and black ball of fur.

"I take it that's Boogaloo," he said, accepting the coffee Neal offered.

"Yup, for Ivan Joseph Jones, one of the heroes of the Atlantic City jazz circuit."

"And one of El's secret pleasures."

"Not so secret anymore. Becky loves the music."

"And his nickname makes a great name for a puppy."

Neal grinned. "Absolutely."

Peter studied the photo again. "What kind of dog is Boogaloo?"

"They think a little bit corgi, and the rest is just a guess. I figured enough time had passed since we lost Satchmo, and Becky starts kindergarten soon, so we went to the shelter. Between Boog and Becky, I'm not really sure who picked who."

"Love at first sight?"

"Pretty much."

"And how's it going with a puppy in the house?"

"Besides the usual housetraining issues? He chewed up one of my Kolinsky sable brushes!"

Peter just had to laugh; he laughed even harder at Neal's affronted look.

"It was an expensive brush," Neal protested.

When he could finally stop laughing, Peter drew in a deep breath and began. "Let me tell you a little about puppy-proofing…"

**Year 6 – November**

"Tampa? Really?"

"That's where June's oldest daughter lives."

Peter shook his head slowly. "It's just hard to imagine June leaving New York."

"Oh, I know," Neal agreed. "But she said she's just getting too old to handle New York winters."

Peter glanced out the fortified window nearest their table, watching as the late fall storm dropped driving rain, sleet, and snow over everything. "I guess there is something to be said for warmer weather."

"Yeah, and Rosalie still lives in Brooklyn, so June promised she'd come and visit next summer."

"Now, Rosalie is Samantha's mother, right?"

"She is. And can you believe Samantha is a senior in high school now?"

"Wow, that doesn't seem real. Has it been that long?"

"I guess it has," Neal replied. "And she's still doing just fine with the transplanted kidney"

"Oh, that's great."

"She's got her sights on Columbia University next year, and then medical school."

"Good for her."

"Yeah, and even better, she lives pretty close, and she loves to babysit for Becky."

Peter sipped at his coffee, studying the younger man across from him. There was something just beneath the surface that Neal wasn't saying. "Do you have frequent need for a babysitter?" he asked casually.

"Well, you know, there are those late night stakeouts sometimes."

"Of course. Any other reason?"

"Is this an interrogation?" Neal asked, a smile playing in his eyes.

"If you want to call it that. Come on, give."

"All right, I've been seeing someone. I think you'd even approve."

"Oh, how's that?"

"Well, remember Taryn van der Zant?"

Peter took a moment to think back. "The Haustenberg case." He sat back, raising an eyebrow. "I thought she wasn't your type."

Neal shrugged that off. "Well, she wasn't – at the time."

"At the time, your only type was named Kate Moreau."

"True," Neal conceded. "But I took Becky to a gallery show at the end of September, and Taryn was there. And, well, it seems that, with the advantage of some time and a new perspective, maybe Taryn and I do have something in common after all."

Peter laughed softly and raised his Styrofoam cup in a toast. "Well, good. Tell me more…"

**Year 6 – June**

"I won't be here the next couple of weeks, but Diana and Jones said they'll try to come."

"Not reverting to a life of crime, I hope," Peter said.

Neal grinned and shook his head. "Nope, Mozzie's still holding me to staying out of the game."

"That's good. So what _are_ you planning?"

"Becky, Taryn, and I are taking a European vacation."

"Really!"

Neal nodded, the excitement visible in his eyes. "We booked the final tickets last night. I thought it would be a good time. Becky's old enough to appreciate the experience, and it's a nice treat before she starts first grade. And Taryn has a few galleries she wants to check out, see if they can work out some loan agreements."

"So, you and Taryn… serious?"

It was a moment before Neal answered. "I think it might be," he finally said. "I'm not exactly an expert on long term relationships, but this one feels pretty good."

"I'm happy for you, Neal," Peter said.

"Thanks. Becky really likes Taryn too, so it's all good right now."

"That's great. I'm sure you'll all have a good time. Tell me about the itinerary…"

**Year 7 – March**

"So, are you ready for the big news?" Neal asked, setting the second round of coffee and candy on the table.

Peter tore open one of the candy bars and took a bite. "I'm fortified with chocolate," he said. "Hit me."

"Sara's moving back to New York."

"Yeah? Got tired of Hong Kong?"

"Actually, Sterling Bosch has a brilliant new vice president, to be based out of their Manhattan home office."

"Wow, that's great. Tell her congratulations for me."

"I will."

"When does she get back?"

"Around the beginning of May. They haven't set a specific date yet."

Something about the way Neal said that last phrase made Peter curious. "They – as in Sterling Bosch?"

"No, 'they' as in Sara and Tony – her fiancé."

"Fiancé? Wow, I didn't know."

"Yeah, he's in international finance. His company has an office in Manhattan, so he's transferring here too."

"And you're okay with all this?"

That got a smile from Neal – one of the soft, genuine smiles Peter had always appreciated. "Sara and I settled things a long time ago, Peter. We're friends – _good_ friends. The kind of friends who can be happy for each other when one of us gets engaged."

"That's great. Any news you'd like to share about you and Taryn?"

Now it was a full-fledged grin on Neal's face – the kind that used to make Peter nervous. "As a matter of fact, there is."

"You're engaged?"

"No, nothing quite that radical," Neal assured him. "But Sara's lease isn't up until the end of June, so she offered us the use of the apartment. Taryn and I are going to take Becky to Hong Kong when school lets out. Kind of a present to celebrate the end of first grade."

"Wow, that's a nice trip." Peter smiled, shaking his head. "I never got farther than Canada until I was in college."

"Well, I've already talked to Becky about us keeping a journal of the trip. So she'll be able to write you a letter and tell you all about it…"

**Year 8 – July**

"You know, you better get this parole, Peter. I don't want to have to go through all of that again."

Peter looked across the table, studying the serious look on his friend's face. "Was it that bad?"

"Well, let's say they were very thorough."

"I had to put together a release plan. If they won't let me stay with you, I'm not sure what else to try. And with your record…"

"Yeah, the parole board had to make sure I wouldn't be a bad influence on you." Neal sighed, looking down – and then he smiled. "Relax, Peter. I had recommendations from Cullen, Hughes, Bancroft, Diana, and a dozen other agents. Then there's my active participation with the PTA and the neighborhood association. Plus, when June left, she recommended me to take over her spots on two charitable review organizations. And Sophie Covington asked me to serve on the Art Class board. I have more community links than most people without a criminal record."

"So the hearing went well?"

"It went fine. In fact, they approved your housing plan. I asked them to let me tell you."

Peter let out a breath he hadn't even realized he was holding. "Wow, that's great. One step down."

"Now you just need to stay out of trouble, and nail your parole interview next month."

"I'll work on that."

"There was one thing that really helped," Neal said, and Peter noticed he was twisting a ring on his finger. Then he stopped and blew on it, before rubbing the ring on his shirt and _casually_ holding his hand out. "Notice anything special?"

Peter couldn't help but laugh. "You got a ten year pin from the Bureau."

"And _you_ said it wouldn't happen," Neal pointed out.

"Well, goes to show even I can be wrong once in a while," Peter admitted.

Neal stared at the ring, shaking his head slowly. "I never thought I'd actually make it to ten years," he admitted.

"How long did you think you'd make?" Peter asked.

"At first? I wasn't sure I'd make it ten days. The original deal was only for the Dutchman case."

"Any regrets?"

"About working for the FBI? Maybe one or two, somewhere along the way, but not now."

"That's good. I'm glad to hear it."

"Glad to hear that you didn't lead me totally astray ten years ago?"

It was Peter's turn to laugh. "Yeah, 'cause that's what I've been so afraid of."

"I figured."

"Yeah, I'll bet," Peter replied, and then he changed the subject. "So, I got the letters and photos, but tell me more about Hong Kong…"

**Year 8 – August**

"So, how did it go?"

Those were the first words out of Neal's mouth after their greeting hug, and Peter smiled. "What, no coffee first?

Neal held up a roll of quarters, waving it tantalizingly. "I'm holding that hostage until I get a report on the parole hearing."

Peter pulled out a chair at the table and sat down. "It went well," he said, as Neal sat down across from him. "As well as it could, I think."

"That's good to hear."

"I have a clean record here. I've taken classes, participated in programs, organized that tutoring group. I have a good home situation to go to – thank you very much – and a good system of support waiting. And I'm pretty sure I conveyed the right amount of sincere remorse for what I did."

"When do you find out?"

"They promised a decision by the end of next week. And if they approve parole, I'll have the exact date somewhere around mid-September."

"You'll be home in less than two months, Peter," Neal said, getting to his feet. "And that definitely calls for a cup of coffee."

"I hope so," Peter said softly, watching as Neal made his way to the vending machines. "I really hope so."


	21. Home

The mile markers were counting down, bring them closer, ever closer, to The City.

_To home._

'Home' was an interesting concept, Peter mused, as he watched the landscape transform from country to suburbia, with the first hint of skyscrapers peeking up in the far distance.

He was going home – except, it wasn't really his home any longer. It was Neal's home, Neal's and Becky's. Peter would be the stranger, the outsider, the interloper…

His hand tightened on the sheet of paper he held, sending a warning of pain to his brain as the edge cut against his palm. The paper cut made him jump, and he looked down, quickly switching hands so he wouldn't get any blood on the precious item. It was the surprise Neal had told him would be waiting in Ithaca.

It was a drawing from Becky…

He studied it again now, happy and sad emotions tugging at him. He'd recognize the townhouse anywhere, of course, even though it was now painted a deep slate blue, which was represented in the drawing. In front, there were three figures. The first was Becky herself, dark-haired and standing in the middle about where the steps would be. The second, also dark-haired, was labeled Papa Neal. The third…

_Daddy._

That one word brought a lump to his throat, and he turned his head toward the window while he swallowed hard. It was also a good time to run a hand over his face, wiping away the tear that had trickled onto his cheek.

He was walking into so many unknowns.

He took a deep breath, trying, once more, to settle his nerves. He'd barely slept, the comfort of a real bed overridden by the complexities of being free. There were so many thoughts jumbling in his head, so many questions needing to be answered.

_And he'd forgotten how noisy the night could be outside, with chirping insects, dogs barking, cars going by, a siren in the distance, birds chirping as the sun began to touch the morning sky._

He'd been too wound up to eat anything for breakfast; even the coffee tasted somehow off. The farewell at the house had been bittersweet, a hug to end the too-short reunion with his father, and a promise by Lowell to plan a trip to Brooklyn in the not too distant future.

A brief stop at the cemetery…

_Neal had even remembered flowers for Peter to lay on his mother's grave._

There had been some light conversation during the early part of the drive. But then they had grown quiet. Neal seemed to understand that Peter needed the time to get his thoughts in order.

He already knew the plan. They had gotten on the road early, so the first stop would be the parole office to get checked in. Then there would be time for lunch – if Peter could stomach it. And then they would go… home, with a chance to get settled before waiting for Becky to get home from school.

Peter turned his attention back to the front, studying how much closer the skyscrapers were now. He'd been lost in his thoughts for a while.

_It wouldn't be long now._

* * *

It was the same parole office Neal had gone to when Ben Ryan had moved in just down the street and Elizabeth…

_God, it still hurt sometimes to think about her – to think about her being so alive, so active, so in tune with life around her._

This time, however, Neal was only there as moral support, and it was Peter's name that was called.

He followed the parole agent to a small office in the back. She was probably a few years younger than he was, reddish-brown hair starting to show some gray, aviator-style eyeglasses highlighting bright green eyes. She moved behind the desk and gestured to a chair in front.

"Please, have a seat."

Peter took the indicated chair, pulling it back just a little to accommodate his longer legs. Then he sat nervously, consciously trying not to show it, while she pulled up what he assumed was his file on the computer.

"I'm Lydia Marston. I'll be overseeing your parole term."

"Ms. Marston." _He hoped 'Ms.' was still the right term…_

She referenced something on the screen. "You were released yesterday from Cayuga Correctional Facility, is that correct?"

"Yes, ma'am. I spent the night with my father in Ithaca. I was told that was approved."

She nodded, turning back to face him. "It was. And you had two days to report here."

Peter tried for a small smile, though he wasn't quite sure it worked. "I just didn't want to make any mistakes already."

"That's a good attitude. Keep it up and we won't have any problems."

"That's my goal."

"This is your first time with the parole system."

"Yes, at least, dealing with it from this side."

"You supervised Neal Caffrey on his probation."

"I did, for a little over three years."

Marston referenced something on her screen again. "It's fairly unusual that we approve housing a parolee with someone who has a criminal record."

This time Peter was pretty sure the smile worked. "I'd say a lot of things with Neal have been unusual."

"I'd have to agree. I was on the panel that interviewed him. He had glowing recommendations from a number of FBI agents, and the Assistant Director in Washington, DC."

"Neal's… special," Peter agreed.

"And he's been raising your daughter?"

"He has."

"Any concerns on becoming responsible for her custody and wellbeing?"

"Oh, I'd be lying if I said I didn't have concerns," Peter admitted. "But Neal has done a good job of telling Becky about me, and about her mother. And Becky and I have been writing letters." He held up his hand, showing the paper cut. "I was holding her latest drawing on the way down from Ithaca."

"I assume Mr. Caffrey will continue to provide support."

"I know he will."

Marston nodded, consulting the screen again. "There were no drugs or alcohol involved in your crime."

"No, ma'am. I was still on prescription pain killers, though only at night. I was not drinking at all."

She tapped something on the touch screen and nodded. "All parolees are subject to random drug testing, regardless of the nature of the crime. But I won't prohibit all alcohol use. Public intoxication would still be a bad idea though."

"Understood."

"Now, what about finding a job?"

"I have an interview tomorrow with Sterling Bosch, the insurance company. Their new vice president is someone I worked with a number of times while I was with the Bureau, and they're looking for an investigator."

"Would doing something close to your old job be a problem?"

Peter shook his head. "No, it wouldn't. What I did had nothing to do with my job, or my position with the Bureau. It was entirely driven by a personal loss."

"The company would need to understand that your travel will be extremely limited for the next fourteen months."

"I believe Sara is well aware of that," Peter replied. _She had personal experience dealing with Neal's former radius._ "But I will make sure it's discussed tomorrow."

"Any other options, if this doesn't work out?" Marston asked.

"I have an advanced accounting degree. My crime had nothing to do with any financial matters, so it would not preclude me from working in that field. And, if nothing else, I got my masonry certification at Cayuga."

"Well, it's always good to have options. Is there public transportation available near where you'll be living?"

"The subway stops about three blocks away."

"Good. At this point, I'm going to say no driver's license. It's something we can revisit later."

"That's fine. No risk of a speeding ticket that way."

That actually got a small smile from Marston. "Unless you catch me on a very bad day, I wouldn't generally violate someone for a simple traffic ticket."

"I think I'll have enough challenges in re-acclimating," Peter replied. "I can wait."

"Good. Now, are you familiar with how the tracking anklet works?"

_He was quite familiar with tracking anklets…_ "My release documents said that you would provide details on the allowed range and curfew hours."

"Your tracker will allow you to move about the metro area. I'll provide a map which shows the limits of that range. And the standard curfew we'll start with is that you need to be within a two block radius of your approved residence from six o'clock in the evening until six o'clock in the morning."

"I understand."

"We can adjust that, based on necessity for work, and on your progress. But for now, if you'll be late, or need to leave early, you need to call the main parole agency number. The contact information will be in the documentation I give you. The operators who answer can approve occasional small deviations – doctor's appointment, transit delay, things like that. Any larger exceptions should be planned in advance and discussed with me."

"Do you think there would be a chance to get approved for a trip to Ithaca to see my father?"

"Let's see how the first couple of months go. We'll discuss it down the line."

"Understood."

Marston reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a small black object. She tapped a few things into the computer and slid the box across the desk. "Keep this with you at all times."

"A pager?"

"You'll be paged at random times. When it goes off, you need to call back within fifteen minutes. If the page comes during curfew hours, the return call needs to come from the landline registered at your residence."

"Of course. Just from a work perspective, can I ask how often it might go off?"

"I can't give you a specific number, because it is set for a random pattern. But I've entered that pager for a mid-level number of requests. If everything progresses smoothly, that will decrease as we go."

"Ms. Marston, I intend for this to be the smoothest parole case you've ever handled."

"That's what I like to hear." She leaned partway across the desk toward him. "Contrary to popular myth, my goal is not to catch you doing something wrong. It's to ensure public safety, and help you reintegrate into society. Many of the restrictions we enforce initially are designed to make sure you get support, and don't try to do too much too soon."

"I totally understand."

"Good. Now, at first you'll be reporting in person once a week. Next week I'd like to make it a home visit, so once you see how the interview goes tomorrow, call the main number and ask to schedule something."

"I will."

"As with many of the things we've discussed, the frequency of the visits can be reviewed and changed later on." She tapped a few things on the computer screen before continuing. "I'm going to print out what we've discussed, and you'll need to sign a few things. Then there are just a few more housekeeping items and we'll be done for today."

* * *

_**Elizabeth Burke**_

Peter reached down, brushing his fingers lightly over the name etched in granite. The headstone went on to proclaim her a loving wife, mother, daughter, and friend.

_It should have said she was the other half of his heart._

And his heart felt somewhat empty, as if it wasn't quite whole, as he stood at the gravesite for the first time in over seven years.

Thanks to their early start from Ithaca, Neal had decided they had time to stop here before heading home to greet Becky. And really, it was probably good that he got this chance to be near Elizabeth again before meeting his daughter.

The grave had obviously been well cared for; Neal had mentioned several times when he and Becky had come out here. And there was a fresh arrangement of flowers in a small cup attached to the stone.

"I'm going to meet her, El," he whispered, fingers still touching the granite. "Our daughter. She's beautiful, looks so much like you. And from everything that everyone has said, Neal has done a terrific job with her. He's told her about you, but I knew you so much better. I'm going to make sure she knows all about you, and how much I loved you. You would have been such a great mom, and you'll still be Becky's role model."

There was movement from the roadway, and he saw Neal walking toward him. Peter straightened up, wiping away a tear. "I have to go now. I'm so scared, El, but excited too. Our daughter…"

* * *

The street hadn't changed much, and except for the color, the house looked much the same. And yet, there was definitely a feeling that things were very different as Peter climbed the front steps, watching as Neal juggled the bags he was carrying and then unlocked the door and swung it open.

A soft, slow beeping greeted him as he stepped inside, and he watched as Neal moved to deactivate the alarm.

"One eight five two," Neal said, as he punched the numbers in. "For REB."

Peter didn't make the connection. "Reb?"

Neal grinned. "Rebecca Elizabeth Burke. We can always change the code, but I figured that would be easy to remember for now."

"Reb. Yeah, that's good," Peter agreed.

A flash of ginger fur came bolting down the stairs just then, and Neal knelt down to greet the dog with a good ear rub.

"And this must be Boogaloo," Peter said, setting his package of photos and letters carefully on the coffee table.

"That's Boog all right," Neal confirmed, getting to his feet. He stepped a little closer to Peter and the dog followed, though a bit hesitantly.

Boog was smaller than Satchmo by maybe half, Peter guessed, with long ginger hair, streaked with a little black and white. He bent down, holding his hand out.

Boog sniffed the air, stretching toward the proffered hand. And then, apparently detecting no threat, he leaned into Peter's hand, pressing his head up.

"Well, I'll leave you to get acquainted," Neal said, turning toward the door. "I'm going to grab the other bags from the car."

"I can help," Peter started.

Neal waved him off. "It's only two bags. I got it."

Peter crouched down, using both hands now to scratch behind the dog's ears. _Satchmo had liked the same thing._ "I hope we'll be friends, Boog," he said, wanting the dog to get used to his voice. "I'm really glad you've been Becky's pal."

Whether the dog recognized the girl's name, or if he just hit the exact _right_ scratching spot, Peter wasn't sure. But Boog suddenly wagged his tail and took a loving swipe at Peter's hand with his tongue.

Peter laughed and got to his feet, looking around. The layout of the house hadn't changed, but the furniture definitely showed Neal's taste. Even the blankets covering the furniture – one of the puppy-proofing tips Peter had shared – were fancier than anything he and El had ever used with Satchmo.

_But it was Neal's house now, so that was fine._

Boog followed as Peter stepped farther into the house. The dining room table was now a glass-topped affair with a deep blue runner down the center. The kitchen had all new appliances from what he remembered, including a couple of gadgets on the counter that Peter couldn't even begin to identify. They were very Neal-ish though.

A low buzzing sound brought his attention to the back door, and he watched as Boogaloo slipped through a pet hatch at the bottom. The hatch closed again with a metallic click.

And then the front door opened as Neal walked back in.

"Scared Boog off already?" Neal asked when the dog didn't come running.

"He just went outside," Peter replied. "Is the door tied to that metallic collar?"

Neal nodded. "The collar sends a signal to the pet door mechanism allowing it to open. Otherwise Boog would probably invite all of the stray neighborhood cats in."

"That could be quite a party."

"One that I'd prefer not to host, thank you." Neal gestured toward the stairs. "Come on, let's get you settled in."

Peter followed, somewhat surprised when Neal headed for the master bedroom on the second floor, still carrying Peter's things. He was even more surprised to find the room barren of any of Neal's personal items. There were just a few boxes stacked by one wall, and furniture that looked new.

"Home sweet home," Neal said, setting down the bags he was carrying. "I just put the basics in here for you, so you can decide what else you want. And I brought up some of the boxes with your things, so you can go through them."

"Neal, this is your house. I can't take this room."

"Of course you can."

"I can't kick you out of your room."

"You're not kicking me anywhere, Peter." Neal took the bags Peter was carrying – mostly filled with the photo t-shirts from over the years – and set them down, then gestured toward the door. "Come on, I'll show you."

Neal led the way up the stairs to the third floor, which in Peter's day had held a largely-unused office and a space they had always intended to make into a full guest suite.

Obviously, things had changed.

The large room they walked into was bright with sunlight. An easel stood on one side next to a window, a workbench with painting supplies nearby. Some blank canvases were stacked next to the bench, and several completed works were arranged around the room. Another work area appeared to be for sculpting, with several small pieces in various stages of completion.

On the other side of the room, nearest the door, there was a bed, a wardrobe, and a rolling rack with suits hanging from it. Several plastic tubs were stacked nearby.

"I always figured this would be a good space for a studio," Neal was saying. "It got decent light, and then I installed the skylight, which made it perfect for working."

"But you're sleeping up here?" Peter asked.

"Yeah, I moved in up here a couple of weeks ago, after they confirmed your release date."

"You didn't have to do that." Peter pointed over across the hall, where the office door stood open. "Is there still a couch in there? That would be fine."

"Peter…"

"It's not right for you to have to move out of the master bedroom, Neal. That wasn't the plan."

"It's fine, Peter."

"So it's 'fine' that your fancy suits are just hanging in the open air like that?"

"Well, I just finished moving them up here yesterday."

"I didn't want to disrupt your life."

"You're not." Neal paused, a concerned look on his face as he patted his pockets. "Hey, do you have a dollar?"

Still trying to marshal arguments against taking the main bedroom back, Peter absently reached into his pocket and pulled out what cash he had. "I have a five."

Neal grinned and snatched the bill. "Excellent," he said, tucking the bill into his own pocket. "I made a profit."

"Profit?"

"You just bought your house back for five times what I paid."

Peter shook his head. "No, Neal, that wasn't the idea. I didn't sell you the house before, only to have you give it back now."

"Well, technically, I didn't 'give' it back," Neal pointed out. "You just bought it. I have the paperwork downstairs for you to sign."

"The plan wasn't for me to get released and kick you out of your house."

"I'll be a homeowner again soon enough," Neal replied. "Taryn and I are buying a house."

"Really? But that still doesn't mean you have to leave here. Just give me a little time…"

"Peter, it's really fine. Taryn and I need a little more space." Neal paused, an almost shy smile on his face. "She's pregnant."

"What! Neal, that's great. Right?"

"Yeah, it's really great."

"Was it a surprise?"

"Well, we talked a few months back about her going off the pill. But it was still a little bit of a shock when the test came up positive."

"I'll bet. How long have you known?"

"Oh, a little over a month, I guess."

"You didn't say anything."

"You did have a few things going on yourself, Peter. You needed to concentrate on getting home."

"Yeah, I suppose." Peter smiled, pointing off to one side of the room, where he had just noticed a smaller easel sitting next to Neal's. "You do have some experience in parenting now."

"But I made plenty of mistakes with Becky, Peter."

Peter closed the space between them, laying a hand on Neal's shoulder. "So the great Neal Caffrey is human after all?"

That got a sharp laugh from Neal. "Oh, he's all too human. And fallible."

"Did you do your best?"

"I did. At least, as I knew it at the time."

"Then you did everything anyone could have asked of you."

"You're going to be proud of her, Peter."

"Oh, I already am." He paused, his voice less certain as he continued. "But I don't know that I'm ready to just step in. She might not be either."

"Relax, Peter, you're not getting rid of me that quickly," Neal assured him. "Taryn and I are meeting with our realtor again on Sunday, and if one of the two places we really liked is still available, we'll probably make an offer next week. But I won't leave you and Becky until you're ready."

"I appreciate that."

Neal nodded, glancing down at his watch. "Becky should be home in about half an hour. Did you want to change or anything?"

"Yeah, it would be good to freshen up a little," Peter agreed, following Neal toward the stairs. "You know, I was halfway afraid you'd have had more people here. I'm glad it's just us."

Neal looked back over his shoulder, grinning. "Oh, that's Saturday," he said. "I invited a few friends over for a welcome home backyard barbecue…"

* * *

If he had ever been this nervous, Peter wasn't sure when it might have been. It wasn't the first time he stepped on the pitcher's mound after being drafted, or even the first time after his shoulder surgery. No, that seemed like a piece of cake now, compared to this. It wasn't comparable to waiting for the results of the FBI admission application, or the final academy results, or even his posting requests. In fact, this didn't even compare to when he finally got up the nerve to ask El out that first time.

In short, he was terrified about what would happen when Rebecca Elizabeth Burke – _his daughter_ – walked in that door.

_Would he be a disappointment to her? Would she be afraid of him? Would she hate him for missing the first seven years of her life – her first steps, first words, first lost tooth, first day of school, first bicycle ride without training wheels…_

The front door opened, and Peter stood up, willing his shaking knees to hold him upright.

Neal was closer to the door, and Peter heard him talking to someone, exchanging greetings, and talking about coming over on Saturday. And then he stepped back into the front room, Becky at his side.

She looked so much like a miniature version of Elizabeth, and it took a moment before Peter realized he was actually holding his breath. He let the air out, took a couple more regular breaths as he watched Neal take her backpack and set it by the stairs.

Finally, with more effort than it had required even to take those first steps in rehab after the accident, Peter managed to put one foot in front of the other, and again, and once more, until he was halfway across the room.

Becky still stood just inside the door, a little nervous, looking between Neal and Peter. And since he was the adult, Peter knew he needed to make the first move.

"Hi, Becky," he said, his voice soft, and a little unsteady. "I'm your…"

"Daddy," she finished.

And then she moved, and he moved, and maybe the room moved too. However it happened, they met somewhere in the middle, her arms wrapping around his waist, his arms engulfing her shoulders, holding her tightly to him.

The nightmare that had engulfed his life, turning everything upside down and inside out, for nearly seven and a half years suddenly seemed to give way. He was laughing, he was crying…

He was finally holding his daughter.

It wouldn't be easy, or fast. But he would get his world back in order, where up was up, right was right, and things made sense. This was a start.

_He was finally home._


End file.
